Remain Nameless
by Mad Hatter - J
Summary: An armor-clad woman makes an appearance in Winterfell with a reputation that precedes her. During the king's stay, she finds herself making new friends...and a lot of enemies.
1. Chapter 1: The Ladyknight

**Chapter One: The Ladyknight**

The wind was cold atop the high hill, blowing through the mane of Freya's white mount. Beneath her thick layer of armor she could not feel it; she paid the weather no mind. Off in the distance was the enormous body of the king's party making their way north, towards Winterfell. High lords, king's guards and freeriders alike moved as one behind the giant wheelhouse that housed the queen and her children. Towards the front of the procession, Freya could make out the king from the standard bearers that surrounded him and another rider in gold she knew to be the Ser Jaime Lannister.

Winterfell lay just beyond them, only a few hours march, which was the reason she'd chosen to join them at this particular moment. It saved her having to travel nearly a month with the enormous assemblage; the obnoxious lords, shady merchants, drunken sellswords and grabby knights who couldn't seem to keep their cocks in their pants long enough to wait for the whorehouses, which weren't quite as readily available in the North as they were back in King's Landing.

She slipped the visor of her copper-colored helm down over her face and set off towards them, hoping to join unnoticed. But word had long spread across Westeros of the so called 'Ladyknight' and her deeds, both good and bad. Wishing only to lead a quiet life by her own principles, with the anonymity even whores could award their callers, Freya had been quick to learn that a woman wearing armor and brandishing a sword was deemed appropriate material for tavern rumors, and soon she had found herself recognized and under the scrutiny of men who thought themselves better fighters. Though the braver ones had been proven wrong on that account, Freya could not shake the nickname, and so held it close instead, using it where she could to gain favors that would otherwise have been denied to a woman of her standing.

It soon became apparent that this was to be one of those occasions.

* * *

As one of the last to enter beneath the raised portcullis, the rider in dark orange armour had yet to be noticed by any of the Starks. In fact, anyone who had entered after the king and his family might as well have been invisible for all the difference it made. Yet, as they dismounted their horse and denied the stableboy its reins, the king himself called them over.

Nearby, Queen Cersei rolled her eyes and ushered her youngest children inside the wheelhouse. Her husband had an unnatural fascination with all things ridiculous, which is exactly what the queen thought of this woman posing as a man. Watching the so called 'Ladyknight' approach her husband, she exchanged a disapproving look with her brother, Jaime.

"Is this really necessary, my love?" she asked the king, her voice kept low for courtesy's sake. But Robert believed in no such notion, and dismissed her with a loud and rude 'Quiet, woman!'

Cersei glanced at the Starks one last time before returning to the wheelhouse with what little dignity her husband left her.

King Robert clapped his old friend, Eddard, on the back with a jolly laugh as the orange armor knelt before him.

"Up, up," he said, the stink of wine on his breath. "Ned, I had nearly forgotten. This one joined us practically outside your gates. A gift for your oldest, perhaps?"

Ned gazed at the king, unsure of what to make of this, and saw his son Robb looking startled from his place among his siblings. When Ned glanced at the one in front of them he was certain they looked uncomfortable, even though he couldn't make out much of them beneath their armor. Catching the expression, Robert only laughed again.

"I am only joking, of course," he chuckled. "Surely you've heard of the dear Ladyknight?"

"I have," Ned admitted.

She removed her helm, then; tight, honey-colored waves spilling out from beneath it. Her face was one made for gentle looks; doe-eyed, soft-lipped and fair. Instead, she wore a somber expression, bordering on indifference. From the corner of his eye, Ned could see Arya whispering excitedly to her older brother.

The Ladyknight wore a sword at her hip and a dagger on her belt, and her helm was curiously shaped; that much Ned could see. As he tried to work out what animal it might have been, Robert made a brief introduction.

"Lord Stark, an honor," the Ladyknight told him, her voice deep and breathy; a surprise to him.

"Enough, enough, enough," King Robert said, quickly tiring of his own fancies, "We've come a bloody long way, and there'll be time for all this nonsense later, surely. Now we must eat 'til we burst, and drink 'til we're pissing beer. And perhaps tomorrow the lady can demonstrate how it is she got her title."

Ned noted the sword at the woman's side; Valyrian steel, he was certain. Its hilt was wrapped with leather dyed black and tipped with an orange and black dog-like head. The weapon had been a gift, no doubt, to match the rest of her armor.

Taking the king's words as her cue to leave, Freya led her horse back towards the stables, where she would see to its needs herself. She'd never allowed anyone else to do so, and neither had the horse.

Ferox had been given to her as a gift from her uncle, who had discovered the horse when he'd ventured past the Wall. As a member of the Night's Watch, Rowan Bainhart had been on a ranging mission with his fellow brothers, when they'd come across a herd of wild horses drinking from a stream. The way he told it, all the horses had fled at the sight of them, save for one daring little foal, who then spent the remainder of the journey following the men at a distance. Try as they might to get close enough to put a rope around its neck, the colt was too clever to be caught, and always shied away at the last moment, as if to mock them.  
Eventually it followed them back to Castle Black, where it proceeded to trail after Rowan like a puppy with its master. Though it seemed funny to him for a while, Rowan soon grew weary of his brothers' jokes and made for Blessbind, home of House Bainhart in the Reach, with the foal in tow. It followed him all the way there without trouble.

The horse now followed Freya everywhere when she wasn't actually riding it, but there were times when it was only practical to keep him locked in a stable, much to Ferox's displeasure. Though he'd put up a fuss when it came to being housed, he had always been protective of her and he barely needed any instructions when mounted; it was as if their minds were one, and for that she could excuse him of any ill behavior.

Watching Freya leave with unconcealed interest (particularly in the lower portion of her body), the king turned back to Ned.

"I've heard strange things of that woman and her animal," he told him, "Though there are so many stories out there about women lying with horses, I'm surprised there aren't more centaurs running about the countryside."

He laughed merrily at his own jape, a deep belly laugh, and clapped Ned on the back once more. Glad as he might have been to see his old friend again, Ned couldn't help but wonder just how long he intended to stay.

* * *

At the feast that night, Freya found herself seated at a table with those not good enough to sit with the high lords, but not low enough to sit with the commoners. It was a middle ground she often seemed to find herself in, but not one she disliked. She'd shed her armor for a better suited doublet of dark grey with a her house sigil stitched on the front in a dark orange thread, a pair of grey trousers and worn leather boots. Her doublet was cinched in around the waist by a thin strip of leather, giving her a decidedly more feminine figure, despite the dagger she had kept with her – she had learnt a long time ago that it was unwise to go anywhere unarmed, even if it was the king's welcoming feast.

Among those present at her table were Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow; a ward of Winterfell and Lord Eddard's bastard, respectively. Theon's eyes had graced her more than a few times that night, but she'd soon come to realize that he'd ogle anything with breasts if they got close enough. Jon, on the other hand, had glanced longingly up at his father's table and now stared blankly down at his meal without actually touching any of the food.  
Freya found herself seated between a pair of particularly rowdy men, accustomed to their loud, impolite behavior. She enjoyed her meal in silence, observing those around her rather than actually interacting with them, but when the man to her left got into a shoving match with his buddy and spilled a horn full of ale onto her lap, she had no choice. Hearing the men's laughter grow louder, Jon glanced over and watched as Freya put a hand on the brute's shoulder and whispered something in his ear. The laughter died from the man's face and so did the color. He was quick to apologize.

Freya had never much been one for drinking, preferring to keep a clear head when she could, and she'd soon had enough food. She contented herself with watching all the drunken behavior, catching glimpses of men's hands disappearing down bodices, more drinks spilled, and even a couple of punches thrown. But one man's behavior in particular caught her attention: the king's. His face was red from all the wine and he was already making his way into the crowd. A couple of serving girls found themselves snatched up into his grasp, giggling coyly at his slurred, filthy language and roaming hands. As soon as she saw him looking in her direction, Freya knew it was time to leave. He was making an attempt to reach her when she passed silent as a shadow through the castle doors. The Northern weather was making itself know outside, and she found herself wishing she'd remembered to bring her cloak with her.

"Having an early night, my lady?" a voice said from behind her. Startled, she turned to find Tyrion Lannister seated on the stone steps with a cup of hot wine in one hand, and a thick woollen coat over his shoulders. "Or perhaps leaving before one of those drunkards can make their move."

He chuckled to himself and she found herself wondering if perhaps that wasn't his first cup of wine for the evening.

"One drunkard in particular, actually."

"Oh?"

"Your brother-in-law," she answered, before remembering herself. "Forgive me, my lord. I should not speak of the king in such a way."

"Of course you should. We're taught from a very young age to always tell the truth, are we not?"

He noticed the dagger at her side.

"Expecting trouble?"

She glanced down at her weapon and laid a hand on its hilt as if for reassurance.

"Always," she replied.

Tyrion smiled.

* * *

Freya was woken the following morning by one of the king's own squires, a girlish-looking young man with the hair and features common to the Lannisters. King Robert had not thought to send a handmaid, as most other men and women were like to do, since it was only proper for a young woman to be called upon by someone of the same sex. It was of little importance to Freya, however, modesty being the least of her concerns after the boy made his announcement.

"King Robert asks for your presence in the courtyard."

"Did he say for what purpose?"

The boy scowled, as if offended by her questioning.

"I do not question the king's orders. And nor should you. He only said you should dress for combat."

The orders needn't have been any clearer than that. The king appeared to have remembered his words from the previous day, though Freya had been hoping all that wine would have drowned them from his mind; and now he expected her to demonstrate the reason men called her 'the Ladyknight'.

By the time she reached the courtyard, in full armor as per the instructions, she found a small crowd waiting for her. The king was seated on a low balcony that overlooked the stone courtyard, with Ned Stark beside him looking uncertain. To Robert's right stood Jaime Lannister, dashing in his gold-plated armor.

 _He means to challenge me,_ Freya realized, her chest tightening. She'd witnessed Jaime Lannister in combat once or twice before. She did not want to be on the receiving end of his blade.

"Ah, Lady Freya!" the king boomed as soon as he saw her, getting to his feet with the grace of a three-legged donkey. He appeared to still be drunk from the previous night's celebrations, (or perhaps just hadn't stopped drinking at all), but he spoke well enough.

"I've a few men eager to test their skill against yours, if you're up to it. What say you?"

"It'd be an honor, Your Grace," she replied, realizing the irony of his title as she watched him chug down another horn of beer. He slammed the cup down on the ledge and gestured to the crowd.

"This lot came to see if there was any truth to the rumors. I expect you'll show them how it is."

"I'll certainly try."

"Alright, enough of this. Who's first?"

"That would be me, Your-"

"Yes, yes," the king said impatiently, "Come forward then, or do you expect her to fight you from all the way over there?"

A middle-aged man with graying hair stepped forward, one of the freeriders that had latched on to the king's party during the journey from King's Landing. His leather armor looked far lighter than Freya's, and he strolled into the middle of the court with his sword already drawn. She could see from his expression that in his mind he had already won the fight.

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Willem Hafter, if it pleases you, Your Grace."

"What would please me is if you got to the fighting already."

Freya placed her helm down over her head and stepped towards the freerider, drawing her sword. The king settled himself back down into his seat with a grin, and gestured for them to begin. It was over in seconds.

Confident that he was stronger than any woman, Willem swept his blade down on her, expecting that she would be unable to block it. Instead of meeting the attack, however, Freya stepped out of the way and used his own momentum to knock him to the ground with a well-placed kick. He had not taken speed into consideration, and had certainly not expected to be attacked with anything but a blade. Lying on the cold stone ground, he felt her press her foot between his shoulders, and then the cold steel tip of her blade on his neck.

She waited for the words.

"I yield," he finally mumbled, raising his hands as much as he could. Too ashamed to face the king, he bowed quickly out of respect and stalked off through the crowd looking downtrodden and bruised.

Robert looked utterly disappointed.

"I pray that was just a warm up. May the next man be worthy of wielding a blade!"

The next challenger was one of Ned Stark's own men, Jory Cassel. There was a touch of hesitation in his movement as he came forward. He gave a respectful little bow to the king before drawing his weapon and facing Freya. She had raised her visor after the last fight, and looked her new opponent up and down, judging him to be a decent challenge. He'd witnessed her speed and made sure not to give her the opportunity to use it, slashing and dodging this way and that so as not to leave an opening. She quickly grew tired of blocking his attacks, and jumped backwards to create some distance.

This incited some negative feedback from the crowd.

"Face him properly, coward!"

"She's retreating!"

"She's 'ad enough!"

"The bitch is beat!"

And then laughter.

Jory saw her hand clench around the hilt of her sword, and for a moment Freya was completely still, her sword held before her. Jory glanced up at Ned, who gave him a supportive nod before his expression changed. He turned to see what was wrong and was met with cold metal as Freya's gauntlet connected with his jaw. The blow caught him off guard and he stumbled back, losing his footing and biting his tongue as he landed. Spitting blood, he looked up at Freya, who was coming in for the finishing blow, but he raised his arm up in defense.

"I yield, my lady."

With her sword still pointed at him, Freya looked around at the crowd, who'd grown considerably quieter by then. Lowering her weapon, Freya held out a hand and helped him up as much as she could – she may have been fast, but it was a difficult thing to lift a man whilst in armor.

Jory ran his tongue over a cut on his lip and watched the Ladyknight raise her visor once more. Her expression, or what he could see of it, was apologetic.

"You'll be wanting to get something on that before it swells," she suggested. He was surprised by the softness in her voice, finding it odd when compared to the viciousness she'd just displayed.

"I'll have the maester see to it."

He had enough dignity left to bow to the king once more before departing, heading in the opposite direction to the freerider before him.

"Alright, which of you fools is next?" the king shouted above the din, laughter in his voice.

"Let my dog have a turn. She'll be no match for him."

Freya hadn't even noticed Joffrey join his father's side, let alone the enormous man who acted his personal guard. Sandor Clegane, known to most as 'the Hound' for both his unique helm and his family sigil, looked down at the courtyard without emotion. Tyrion had also arrived sometime between the first fight and the second, and was leaning against the balcony railing, observing with interest.

"Quiet, boy," King Robert told his son, gesturing to the court, "someone's already stepped forward."

Freya found Theon Greyjoy standing behind her. She hadn't heard him approach over the noise of the crowd. He addressed the king in much the same way Jory had, but appeared far more eager to use his blade, a condescending smile on his face.

"Dirty fighting's not going to work on me," he told her, as they began to circle around.

"If a man fights well, that's valor. But if a woman fights well, it's dirty?"

"Most men win with their swords, not their fists and feet."

Freya flipped her visor down and started forward.

He was fast, this one. As she swept her blade across, Theon blocked the attack, stepping to the left and making an attempt at her open side. She dodged just in time and caught the smirk on his face. He knew he had her by surprise. She went for his legs this time, but he caught the blow and swung it upwards, going for her stomach, but again she jumped back. Freya stood still for a moment, as she had with Jory, weighing up her next move. If she continued the way she was now, she knew they would keep up this dance for hours. She thought back to the night before; the way he'd been eyeing off every female in the room. Then she had it.

She pushed her visor up and matched the boy's smirk.

"You're not bad, I'll give you that," she purred, her eyes alluring.

"I'm better than that." He hadn't missed the look she'd given him. She came at him again, their swords meeting between them, drawing them closer.

Smiling, she said, "I've heard it said that men good on the battlefield are even better in bed."

His eyes flicked to her grip on the valyrian sword, watching as her fingers stroked and squeezed the hilt. He'd suddenly forgotten his next move.

Freya broke the standoff and stepped back again, her eyes glinting with mischief. When she finally stepped towards him, Theon found himself watching her hips, rather than her sword, so when she whacked his hand with the flat of her blade, he had no time to step away. Instinctively, he dropped his own weapon and focused on the pain coursing through his fingers, letting out a 'yelp' of surprise. From somewhere above them, Freya could hear laughter, but she did not look up. Instead she moved towards her opponent in careful strides, hoping he would yield before she reached him; but he had far too much pride for that.  
He tripped backwards over a loose stone and landed heavily on his ass, continuing to scuttle away from the woman even after that.

"Yield," she told him, her voice back to its usual tone.

Theon flicked a pebble up at her, but she caught it on her sword, sending it into the crowd.

"Yield," she said again, this time with more force.

He glared up at her, a dark scowl on his face, and then glanced over at his lost blade. Deciding it was too far to make a dash for, he consented.

"Fine," he spat. "I yield."

Then he saw her eyes; all the mischief had gone from them, and he realized it had all been an act. Anger thrashed around inside of him like the kraken of his family sigil. She'd beaten him with empty promises and, even worse, he had let her.

Freya turned to look back at the king, who was in the middle of a conversation with Jaime as they watched her, but the sound was overpowered by laughter once more. Looking around, Freya spotted two young men standing in a window, observing the fight below. Between them stood a little girl who looked absolutely thrilled by the scene below. Theon's scowl deepened when he saw his friends laughing at his defeat.

"You two!" the king's voice sounded across the courtyard. The laughter faded from the boys' faces as they realized who was addressing them. "You think you can fair better than this one? Get out here."

It was a few moments later that Jon and Robb appeared through the crowd. They bowed respectively to their king and looked up at their father with worry on their faces.

"Forgive us, Your Grace," Robb began, but the king waved a hand to stop him. Jon glanced back at the Ladyknight and to the sharp edge of her blade.

"Do you know how to fight, lad?" the king asked.

"He does, Your Majesty. I can attest to that," said Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, stepping forward with two swords.

"Good. And you?" Robert said, this time addressing Jon, "What about you?"

"I…I can, Your Grace."

"Well, then. Prove it."

Robb and Jon exchanged looks and caught the swords that Ser Rodrik tossed to them.

"Which of you is to be first?" the king asked.

"I'll have them both, my king," Freya told him.

The king laughed jubilantly at that.

"Aye, that's more like it. Well, you heard her." He gestured for them to begin, spilling half the contents of his cup onto the ground in the process. A clear look of concern marked Ned's face. He knew the fighting was only for play, but he also knew just how sharp Valyrian steel could be. Had it not been for the king's insistence that they fight with real steel, he would have had Rodrik gather the blunted, practice kind from the armory. Should Lady Freya or one of his boys misplace one step, it could well be their last.

Jon and Robb raised their weapons and took up a defensive stance, glancing back and forth from their opponent to each other. They took careful steps towards her as she pushed down her visor once more, and waited for her to make the first move. But it soon became clear that she waiting for them.

Robb made a meaningful gesture to his brother and Jon nodded, moving up behind the woman. With one of them behind her and one in front, she had no chance. How was she to see them both with a helm on? This considered, Robb did find it slightly odd that she didn't turn sideways to solve this problem, but he gave Jon another nod anyway and they made their attacks. Jon moved to bring his sword down right on top of her head, and Robb thrust his forward, hoping to catch her off guard while she blocked his brother's attack, but she did neither. Instead, she stepped backwards, out of reach of Robb's blade, and elbowed Jon in the stomach, ducking to avoid his steel. Jon doubled over and only just managed to escape her counter-attack, jumping backwards, and ducking.

Freya's focus was soon back on Robb, who came to his brother's aid with a powerful strike. She knocked the blow aside, but he quickly came back with another, not letting up until Jon had regained his balance. Snow re-joined them with a shout of exertion, and three swords came together, their sound echoing through the courtyard. The small crowd gave shouts of encouragement to the boys and cries of frustration as the Ladyknight managed to evade yet another of their attacks.

Jon came at her again with a little too much confidence, Robb's presence giving him more courage than was reasonable. Freya swung his attack around, using his own weight against him, and kicked him in the back of his knees, sending him to the ground. His breath was knocked out of him as he landed, and his arm flew up automatically to protect himself from any further attacks, but as soon as he'd fallen, Freya had turned to Robb, knowing he would come at her again as he had before. Their swords rang together, but this time Freya spun out of the way and pushed Robb in the side, knocking him off balance. He only just managed to block her next attack, but the force of it threw him further back, and it wasn't long before he too was on the ground. He looked up the length of the woman's sword, his expression solemn. But he had enough honor to say the words, knowing when he was beaten. Jon looked just as miserable - after all that effort, his arms already aching, he had still been defeated. And by a woman, too! He'd thought better of himself, and he could tell just from looking at him that Robb's thoughts were much the same.

He could not bear to look up at his father, for fear of seeing the shame in his eyes, but as the Ladyknight raised her helm and he met her eyes, he saw not triumph or mocking, but a softness he could not quite understand. She held her hand out to him to help him to his feet, and he hesitated a moment before accepting. She was surprisingly strong, he thought. After she'd helped Robb up, too, the three stood before the king and the boys had no choice but to face their father. He looked down at them but with far less shame then they'd been expecting. Above the din of the crowd, which was halfway between cheering and yelling for the sake of noise, Freya heard clapping and then a whistle. Glancing up, she saw it was Tyrion, whose brother was watching him with amusement.

"Well fought, lads," the king announced. "Would have been better had you not lost, I suppose."

There was a titter from the crowd, and Freya saw Jon's cheeks redden. He looked like a pup that had just been kicked by his master. Robb, however, stood tall, taking the defeat in his stride. Or at least appearing to – Freya noticed the way his jaw was clenched, and the tight grip on his sword hilt.

"And you, Lady Freya. You've certainly lived up to your reputation. Perhaps those here today will think twice before ever crossing you."

"Thank-you, Your Grace," said Freya, bowing her head respectfully.

Though the king's words seemed to make for an end to the fighting, Freya looked up at the Ser Jaime, wondering if he might be the last man to challenge her. _Last_ , she thought, _That seems very final_. _It would seem a shame if I were to meet my end at the hands of Jaime Lannister._

Though Ser Jaime seemed to be thinking along the same lines as her, she was surprised to see that Queen Cersei had appeared by his side and was whispering something in his ear. He looked at his sister as if to question her words, but seemed only able to obey whatever it was she had asked of him. For a moment, Freya wondered if the queen hadn't just warned him against challenging her. It was no secret that the queen had a strong dislike of the Ladyknight, finding her an unnatural thing, but perhaps that hatred had served Freya well on this day.

When she looked up again, she found another pair of eyes boring into her. The Hound was a hard man to read, his expression generally unaffected, and this occasion was no different. Still, she couldn't help but feel something lurking behind those cold eyes; perhaps he had wanted his turn with her after all.

* * *

 **A/N: Just a quick word. I'm currently going through my folder of fanfiction that I've had saved on my laptop for years. I began this story quite a long time ago, and have just enough for maybe 4-5 more chapters, if I stretch it. I'm mainly posting to see what sort of interest I get, and to see if it will be worth writing new chapters once I run our of pre-written material. Thanks for reading xx**


	2. Chapter 2: Unstable

**Chapter Two: Unstable**

Another feast was held that night (though technically any meal with the king was a feast, with all the food he ordered to be prepared), and despite her victories, Freya found herself back at the same table. Theon had made sure to seat himself as far away from her as he could, lest he find himself the butt of every man's joke. Jon had not even bothered to show up.

Freya ate as much as she could manage, but her stomach was paining her terribly, as it had a tendency to do after lengthy combat. She had taken part in a tourney at King's Landing a few years earlier, which was where the king had first seen her in action. Since jousting was not of much interest to her, she had tried her hand at the melee event and had quickly become one of the last fighters remaining after defeating dozens of men; freeriders, sellswords and knights alike. But it was the last round that proved her undoing. She was placed up against Ser Gregor Clegane, the biggest man she had ever laid eyes upon. She'd once heard the story of how he'd shoved his own brother's face into a fire just to teach him a lesson, and after she had seen Sandor Clegane's scars, she need not have asked if this tale was true.

She was almost three feet shorter than her opponent, and knew already that there was no chance of defeating him, but that did not stop her from trying. She was faster than him, that much was true, but her constant moving around had angered him, and he'd smacked her to the ground with one blow from his gauntlet-covered fist, knocking out her breath and breaking a few ribs. Knowing she was lucky to have lasted that long in battle with him, she raised her hands and yielded. But he paid that no mind. Savoring the look on her face, he slid the tip of his sword into her belly and held it there for just a moment, watching the blood bloom beneath it.

It was around that time that Freya lost consciousness, but when she finally woke, she found that she had been patched up by a maester, and that two days had passed. She had no recollection of how she had come to be in the maester's tent, but it was another week before she could even sit up properly; a further two before she could mount a horse. The maester had explained the extent of her wound, and the damage that had been dealt to one of her muscles. It hadn't healed as well as she'd hoped, and so she suffered aching cramps now and then, particularly after physical exertion.

Just as she had the night before, Freya managed to slip out of the hall once more without being noticed. Thankful that she'd remembered a cloak this time, she stepped out into the cold night and nearly ran head-on into Benjen Stark.

"Lady Freya," he smiled. "I didn't think to see you here. Shouldn't you be out somewhere making lesser men quiver in their boots?"

She returned his smile and he patted her gently on the shoulder. She had snuck to the Wall once or twice as a young girl to visit her uncle, and on one occasion had found herself caught and at the mercy of Benjen. As a girl of only ten years, she'd brandished her sword at him and demanded her release her at once, but he had only laughed and pointed out her incorrect grip on the hilt. Eventually he did take her to see Rowan, but not until after she'd shouted herself hoarse and stamped down on his toes.

"Your uncle misses you, he lets us all know it every day."

"I'm sure he does. Perhaps it's near time for a visit, then. How does he fair up on that wall of yours?"

"Same as every other man, only he's got a young niece to be proud of. And from what I've been hearing, he has a right to feel that way."

She was unable to hold back a wince as another cramp ripped through her stomach.

"Is everything alright?"

"An old wound," she confessed, "Nothing to worry about."

Benjen nodded and glanced away as the clanging of a sword sounded across the yard. Jon Snow was taking out some of his anger on a straw-filled dummy, hacking away at it with intense ferocity; he'd certainly taken today's defeat to heart.

"Well, I best go rescue my brother from his guests," Benjen told her, offering one last smile before turning to leave. Then he seemed to remember something. "How is that horse of yours, by the way? Such a strange thing it was, following Rowan around the way it did."

"A habit it's yet to break," Freya smiled.

"Loyalty like that's hard to find these days."

"Horses acting like dogs are hard to find, too, but that doesn't appear to mean they do not exist."

He chuckled at that and left her, excusing himself before another guest who was on their way out. Turning to see who it was, Freya saw Jaime Lannister approaching, his customary smirk only enhancing his handsome features; but looks could be deceptive. The man loved blood and killing more than he ever would any woman, and though he was without his blade on this chilly night, he still had the look of a man prepared to kill at a moment's notice.

"My lady," he nodded, taking up a position by the wall and proceeding to take a piss right in front of her. "You fought well today."

"Do you think so?" she asked, not sounding at all interested in his opinion.

"Of course. I mean, a green freerider, the Stark's babysitter and three young boys – if that's not a victory, I don't know what is. It's too bad I didn't get a chance to knock you down a peg or two."

"Wouldn't want to make your sister mad, now, would you?"

"That's no way to talk about your queen." He shook off the last few drops and relaced his breeches. "Why don't we just settle it now? I'll got get my sword, you get yours…"

"I'm afraid I've had enough fighting for today."

"Words a true warrior would never speak."

"Perhaps not a 'true' warrior, but a wise one for sure."

"Wisdom means little when you find yourself in the midst of battle. The swords seem to do most of the talking, don't you find?"

He watched her for a moment, his head cocked to the side; then, sensing her discomfort, he smiled.

"We _will_ settle this one day."

"Oh, I look forward to it."

With his smirk still intact, Jaime left her with a mocking bow and disappeared back into the hall.

Freya stepped out into the yard and stared up at the sky, distracted for a moment by the beauty of the stars and the crescent moon, before she caught the tail-end of a conversation.

"Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget who you are. The rest of the world certainly will not. But wear it like armor and it can never be used against you. Ah, here's someone who could attest to that."

Tyrion stood over by Jon, drinking from a wineskin and gesturing to the Ladyknight as if to prove his point, but Jon did not seem convinced.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch the start of that," Freya said, approaching them, "I wouldn't know what I'm agreeing to."

"I was merely stating to the boy that there's no point fighting what you are."

"Oh, then yes, I suppose. You can't hope to defeat your enemies when you make one of yourself."

Tyrion gave Jon a pointed look. "See."

Jon went back to chopping the dummy, doing his very best to ignore the Imp.

"But what enemies could you possibly have, my lady. You don't seem the type to give unwarranted grief to others."

"Anyone who carries a sword makes an instant enemy of every person who does not know them. Trust isn't thrown around as freely as your Lannister gold, you know. And besides" – she glanced over at Jon – "I've probably made even more enemies after today."

Jon stopped for a moment and looked almost apologetic.

"Well, would you look at that," Tyrion frowned down into wineskin, "I appear to have dried out my stores. I'm sure the king wouldn't mind sharing some of his."

"You might have to squeeze it out of him first. I'm sure he sweats the stuff," Freya told him. He chuckled and headed for the feast. After a moment, the doors opened, admitting the dwarf and briefly releasing the sounds of those within. Once the happy chattering and drunken singing was cut off by the closed door, Jon said, "I'm not your enemy."

He hacked into the sack of hay without waiting for her reply, but it came anyway.

"Yes, you seem to be taking your defeat _very_ well."

It took a moment for Jon to realize he was being mocked, and he turned, scowling.

"Are you only here to make fun of me?"

"I didn't mean to offend," she said, her voice softening. "It's just…you shouldn't take it heart. If I'd done that, I would have given up my blade a long time ago."

A brief silence passed between them before Jon asked, "Where did you learn how to fight?"

"All over. After my father was killed in the war, my mother took her own life and it fell on me to look after myself. My uncle had already joined the Night's Watch, and I had no other family to speak of. So I travelled around seeking out the finest swordsmen willing to teach a young girl how to fight."

"I can't imagine there'd have been many."

"No, there wasn't. I think the ones who did offer their services did it for the novelty of the situation more than anything else. That and the little gold I had to offer, of course. A young girl travelling on her own along the kingsroad with naught but a horse, a sword she can barely use, and the clothes on her back, picks up many free lessons along the way. I learnt more about the true nature of people than I would have thought possible."

Jon thought he saw a sadness creep into her eyes then, but sensing his gaze, she forced a smile.

"Well, you may say you are not my enemy, but I'm certain your friend holds no great love for me."

"Theon says you cheated."

"And what did it look like to you?"

"It looked like a fair fight."

She smiled again, and this time it was genuine.

"I once had a Braavosi teach me a few things about fighting. The Braavosi are some of the best swordsman in all the lands, I'm sure you've heard, and this one was no different. 'We have a saying, where I come from', he told me, 'See with your eyes, not with you ears'. In other words, trust what you see with your own eyes and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I saw that Theon had a weak spot, and I poked at it, and I won. It's as simple as that."

"Some say you fought without honor."

"Do you always listen to what everyone else says, Jon Snow?"

He looked dejected at that, and his gaze fell to his feet.

"You've an uncle on the Wall?" he asked quietly.

"I do. And each time I see him, he tells me he regrets his decision."

"It's an honor to serve in the Night's Watch," Jon contended, sounding like a child repeating something they'd heard someone else say.

"I remember him saying the same thing before he left us for Castle Black."

"I've made my choice," he said stubbornly.

"You mean to go? But you're only a boy." The words came out before she could stop them, and she saw him tense up. Surely she'd damaged his pride enough for one day.

"I'm no boy, I'm a man. And soon I'll be a man of the Night's Watch." He raised his sword and slashed at the sorry-looking dummy, putting an end to the conversation. Staring at the seventeen year-old, Freya felt a touch of pity. Another lost child looking for a place to call home. She managed a small smile at that, and turned towards the stables.

Ferox was pleased to see her, letting out a loud whinny that startled the horses in the stalls around him.

"Hush, you," Freya told him, stroking his nose. "I'll take you out for a ride tomorrow, I promise."

"Strange thing for someone to talk to their horse like that," a voice said. Freya's hand flew to the hilt of her dagger, her eyes wide.

The Hound stepped out of from the stall of an attractive chestnut pony, carrying a hoof pick.

"I might say the same of men lurking in the shadows," she told him, her hand remaining where it was. He glanced at her belt.

"You'll have no need for the blade. I'm here on the prince's business. He says his horse was favoring a leg on the way here."

"And he couldn't have one of the stable boys see to it?"

"He doesn't trust northerners."

Freya hesitated before letting her hand fall back to her side.

"And?"

"What?"

She wondered how it was that a man could look so angry all the time.

"Was the horse favoring its leg?"

"Not as far as I could tell, but I didn't get to see much before it gave me a decent kick to the shin."

"I could take a look, if you like. I'm not from the north, so I'm sure Prince Joffrey wouldn't mind."

Was that the twitch of a smile she saw?

"If you think it'll do any good. But don't blame me if you get your head caved in by a hoof."

Ignoring his words, Freya took the pick from his hand and entered the stall, giving the pony a reassuring pat and a few quiet words before she bent to lift its leg. Sandor watched her silently. The beast had been so nervous around him, but with her it was gentle as a lamb.

"Ah, here it is," Freya said after moment, "He's got a stone trapped under his shoe. Probably just about ready for a new set, anyway, I'd say. Let the prince know, and maybe the smithy here can see to it."

"I'll tell the man myself. The prince would sooner have the creature killed than have to worry about it throwing him from the saddle."

Freya looked horrified by the idea. She gave the pony one last pat, as if she empathized with it having to put up with the royal brat, and stepped out of the stall. She handed the hoof pick back to Sandor, who took it without thanks. He looked as if he wanted to say something to her, but then seemed to think better of it, turning to walk away. Before he left the stables, he paused in front an enormous black horse, his own, and fed it a sugar cube he'd taken from his pocket. He gave the animal a gentle pat before stalking off into the night, leaving Freya with a curious smile on her face.

She looked over at Ferox and found his dark eyes staring at her.

"What?"

He whinnied and shook his head.

"Oh, shush."

She scratched him behind the ear and gave him a kiss on the nose before she departed, glancing around the yard before she stepped outside. Jon was gone from his spot by the practice dummy, and with everyone else inside for the feast, Freya found the silence surrounding her rather disconcerting. She headed for her chambers, and the books that awaited her; the only things she could always rely on for a bit of comfort.


	3. Chapter 3: Beginnings

**Chapter Three: Beginnings**

It was a few days later that the king called for a hunt in the Wolfswood that lay just beyond Winterfell. Freya was woken very early by the sound of horseshoes on stone and the shouts of men, as they prepared for their trip outside the walls. She was out in time to see the men mounting their steeds, and found Tyrion seated beside the Hound, looking immensely hungover.

"Are you joining the hunt, my lady?" Tyrion asked her.

"I don't make a habit of hunting things that can't hunt me back," she replied, her eyes on the king, who seemed to be having trouble getting onto his horse. Tyrion followed her gaze and chuckled to himself.

"Poor beast," she muttered.

"I trust you're not referring to Robert," Tyrion said. Freya laughed at that and glanced back at the Hound, offering him a warm smile. His expression remained much unchanged as he pulled on his boots.

"I heard you were accompanying Benjen Stark and Jon Snow on the trip back to the Wall," Freya said to the smaller man, "Would you mind if I joined you?"

Tyrion seemed surprised by the request.

"Woman aren't allowed at the Wall," the Hound said flatly, getting to his feet.

"Good thing she's not a woman, then," said Jaime, as he passed them on his way to the main hall. Sandor gave him a cold look.

"Won't you be joining the hunt, Ser Jaime?" Freya asked, "I'd have thought instilling fear into innocent creatures would be one of your favorite pastimes."

"I prefer things that can fight me back," he called over his shoulder.

The smile fell from her face, the similarity to her own answer unnerving.

"Forgiving my brother's rudeness, I see no reason why you shouldn't join me. What's your interest in the Wall, anyway?"

"I've an uncle serving in the Night's Watch. The only family I've got left. I wouldn't mind paying him a visit." _Or seeing Jon Snow off, the poor boy._

"Ah, family. Don't you just love them?"

Since Freya had seen the way Cersei treated her younger brother, she knew those were empty words coming from him. He got to his feet and stretched, not adding much to his height, and then yawned.

"Well, I do believe I had an appointment to keep with a certain woman. Nothing like a whore for a hangover. Pardon me, my lady."

"I've travelled all over Westeros, Lord Tyrion–"

"Please, just 'Tyrion'."

"As you wish. I've travelled all over Westeros, Tyrion, if you think that's the worst I've heard come out of a man's mouth you'd be sadly mistaken."

Tyrion looked up at her and smiled before he wandered off, whistling to himself as he headed for the nearest whorehouse. A commotion sounded nearby as one of the king's squires was knocked backwards into one of the knights, and Freya twisted around to see it, forgetting for a moment the old wound that had been giving her so much trouble of late. She gave an involuntary hiss of pain before remembering that Sandor was still behind her, and she turned to face him. It wasn't exactly concern on his face, but his eyes went to the hand pressed on her stomach and back up to meet her gaze.

"A mark left by your brother," she told him. Then, realizing what she'd just said, her eyes darted to his scar and she felt herself blush.

"Aye, he does that," was all the man said, before leaving her to stand alone and embarrassed.

* * *

When the king was off on his hunt, Freya found Winterfell to be a rather peaceful place. She took one of her books to the godswood and sat beneath the big, white heart tree, taking a moment to gaze at her reflection in the pond in front of it. Her grey eyes looked tired, and her honey-colored hair wasn't as neat as she would have liked, but at least the pain in her stomach had settled. She'd always had trouble sleeping in strange places, which posed a problem for someone who spent most of their life on the road, but the idea of settling down somewhere didn't seem appealing, either. She wasn't meant for that life, she thought, and the concept of marrying some man and bearing his children seemed even worse. At twenty-two years, she knew she was well past the usual age of marriage for a woman, but she was yet to meet a man who liked the idea of his wife wielding a blade better than he could.

Freya was quite a few pages in to her book when she heard footsteps approaching. Tyrion had returned, and seemed rather taken by the beauty of the old forest.

"Did you make your 'appointment'?" Freya asked him without looking up.

"I did. And with time to spare. What's that you're reading?"

"Something about dragons," she replied. "Lady Catelyn was kind enough to give me free rein in Winterfell's library.

"Really? I shall have to have a word with her then. I've already worked my way through the more interesting volumes at King's Landing, and since most of the books there are about some king or another, there weren't that many interesting books to choose from in the first place. Dragons, you say?"

"Mm. Have you seen the skulls in the Red Keep, by any chance, or did King Robert have them disposed of?"

"I have seen them, actually. Monstrous things, but they still inspire awe, I must admit."

He was silent for a moment as they both gazed across the still water.

"You fought well the other day."

"For a woman?" she asked.

"For anyone. My brother was eager to test your skills, but my sweet sister would not have it. I think she might have been worried you'd beat him."

"I doubt that," Freya said, but she smiled all the same.

"No, I'm being serious. I've seen you fight a few times before in tourneys. You're gifted with that blade of yours."

"If I learnt anything, it was that I couldn't be justas good as any man, I had to be better. Who would want a woman fighting for them when they'd be just as well off with a man?"

"I see your point. Still, if it were me, I'd see the advantage of having a woman for a swordsman."

"And what's that?"

"Men are so given to doing evil things – killing, stealing, fucking, raping. Women, whether they like it or not, are born with far gentler hearts. I'd feel less likely to be betrayed for money or some folly of power if it was a woman by my side."

"What makes you think I'm not fond of a bit of killing and stealing and fucking and raping?"

"I've never seen someone look so apologetic about winning a fight as you did the other day. You couldn't possibly ask me to believe that you're as bad as any man."

Freya thought for a moment, smiling down into the pages of the book on her lap.  
"I suppose not. But then, you're not quite as bad as any man, either, are you?"

Grinning, he took a seat beside her, suddenly very aware of his stubby legs and other general misgivings in the presence of such a lovely woman; but she didn't seem to pay it any mind. She had that rare quality, he thought, of seeing past a person's appearance, to who they truly were. It was a lesson her father had taught her at a very young age, before he'd gone off to fight the dragon king. 'Never judge a man's heart by his face', he'd told her. It was advice that had served her well so far, and had kept her alive where others might have fallen prey.

As he looked around the godswood, Tyrion soon found his attention drawn to the weirwood behind them, and the sad face carved into its trunk. Red sap ran from its eyes, long hardened since the time of its creation, making it look as though it were crying tears of blood.

"I was raised to worship the new gods, but I've always found the old gods rather interesting," he told Freya, "My brother might call praying to trees a fools idea of faith, but there's a sense of old power about them, don't you find?"

"My father raised me to believe in the old gods, and I've always found the trees rather _disturbing_."

"Ha, well, I could see that as well."

He glanced back up at the sad wooden eyes and heard Freya getting to her feet. She brushed the dirt from her breeches and used a leaf to mark the spot in her book. Tyrion looked up at her, wondering if maybe he'd disturbed her peace. He settled back against the tree and decided not.

"I made my horse a promise I'd take him out for a ride today. If I go back on it, he's bound to kick the damn stable down."

"If anyone asks where I am…" he began, closing his eyes.

"I haven't seen you," Freya finished for him. He smiled and pulled his cloak closer around his shoulders.

* * *

Ferox was waiting for her patiently when she arrived in the stable, his head over the stall door keeping an eye out. The stables felt so empty with so many of the men gone from Winterfell, and when Ferox's excited whinny echoed through the building, it made the place seem even more so.

"I told you I'd keep my promise," she told him, patting him on the muzzle.

Heading for the tack room to retrieve her saddle and bridle, Freya thought back to her encounter with Sandor a few days earlier. She had felt sorry for Joffrey's pony at the time, but she'd never realized until now how much the prince's personal guard must have suffered under the cruel child. She'd heard him call the man 'Dog' so many times since they had arrived at Winterfell, she wondered how Sandor hadn't driven his sword through the little prick yet.

 _Maybe I'll ask him when he gets back,_ she thought to herself, almost laughing, _Wait, does that count as treason?_

A sudden noise behind her startled her from her thoughts and she had her dagger in her hand within seconds. She spun around and pushed the attacker back against the wall, her dagger pressed to his throat and her expression fierce.

Jon Snow stared back at her with such fear she thought he might start to cry. She released him immediately, replacing her dagger in its scabbard and stepping back.

"I-I'm sorry," he stuttered, his face as pale as his bastard name.

"Never sneak up on a woman like that. Not unless you're looking to lose an eye…or something you'll miss even more."

Jon's eyes widened at the thought.

"I wasn't sneaking," he protested, "I was looking for Ghost."

Freya cocked an eyebrow.

"You were…looking for ghosts?"

"No. Ghost. My direwolf. He's only a pup. He has a habit of running off."

"A direwolf?" Her eyes seemed to brighten at the idea. "I haven't seen any direwolves, sorry."

"Well, there are six running around Winterfell. You're bound to see one eventually."

He turned to leave, his expression surly from his scare.

"Jon?"

He turned back, his brow furrowed.

"Sorry. It's just…I've had a few bad experiences with men sneaking up on me. I tend to– "

"I wasn't sneaking," he corrected her again, sounding on the verge of an angry outburst.

"Okay. I know. I'm sorry."

He stared at her for a moment, and then his expression softened in defeat.

"It's fine," he said, then he walked away.

When she'd finally gathered Ferox's saddle and bridle, she found her silvery horse sniffing inquisitively at a pure white wolf pup. Jon stood next to the pup to make sure it wasn't going to start any trouble, and watched the two animals greet each other. It was hard to believe Ghost was only a pup, since he was almost the same size as a fully grown dog, but she knew direwolves grew to enormous sizes. She had never seen one up close before, though, not even on the one occasion she had ventured past the Wall.

Hearing her approach, Ghost looked up with his strange, red eyes and Ferox blew air into his ear, making him shake his head furiously at the sensation. Jon laughed at that and reached down to give the pup a comforting scratch on the head, but he gave his master a playful nip and wandered off towards Freya. As she placed the saddle on top of the stall door, Freya glanced down at the little wolf and smiled.

"Where did you find him?" she asked, unlatching the stall door and holding it open for Ferox as he stepped out. The horse walked out into the middle of the aisle and waited patiently to be saddled.

"Just outside the Wolfswood," Jon replied, his eyes narrowing at the horse's curious behavior. "The mother was dead, killed by a stag's horn to the throat."

Freya's expression changed as he said that, but she made no comment.

"What?"

She busied herself with Ferox's bridle, and didn't reply for a moment. Then she turned back and hesitated before she spoke.

"Seems a strange thing, doesn't it? A stag killing a direwolf like that. Direwolves aren't even supposed to be found down this way."

"What are you saying?"

"The Stark house sigil and the…You know what? Never mind."

"You think it's an omen?" Jon pressed.

"If I believed in such things, I might. It would seem pretty clear, in fact."

"There's no bad blood between the Starks and the Baratheons." He had lowered his voice, as if he thought a royal spy was hidden somewhere, listening in.

Freya finished tightening the buckles on Ferox's saddle and took him by the reins, leading him towards the stable doors, stopping only to give Ghost a scratch behind the ear.

"Forget I said anything, then, Jon. What would I know, anyway? I'm only a woman."

* * *

She was half-tempted to ride through the godswood and disturb Tyrion from his nap, but as much as the idea amused her, she was sure Lady Catelyn wouldn't appreciate her stirring up the ground in the sacred place.

Instead, she rode out through the Hunter's Gate, knowing the king's party was surely deep into the forest by now. Galloping through the open fields that surrounded Winterfell, she felt her thoughts melt away, and focused instead on the breeze whipping through her long hair, and the steady beat of her horse's hooves on the soft ground. Ferox slowed when they came to a stream that flowed out from the Wolfswood, and they stood by the water for a moment, enjoying the peace. Freya dismounted, then picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water, watching it sink slowly to the bottom of the riverbed.

She looked forward to the journey to the Wall, to seeing her uncle again and being reminded that there was still one other person in the world that shared the same blood as her. She didn't like to think about her family very often, and had spent almost a decade forcing herself to get on without them, but from time to time it was still good to know that there was someone out there who had no choice but to care about her. If only she had been born a man, then she could join the Night's Watch and live by her uncle's side for the rest of their lives. But as much as she would have liked that, she wondered if she could stand being celibate. The thought amused her, and she found herself thinking of the many beddable men she had met since her arrival at Winterfell.

The pounding of hooves sounded in the distance and she turned to see a pony approaching from the Hunter's Gate. It skidded to a halt in front of her, the rider having pulled back on the reins much later then they should have, and Freya saw the youngest Stark daughter sitting astride it. Not far behind her, another direwolf pup was running to catch up. Unlike Ghost, this one was grey and white and also slightly bigger, with large, brown eyes. When it finally reached its master, it sat by beside the pony and looked up at her with its head cocked to one side.

"Lady Arya," Freya smiled, her eyes skimming over the young girl's clothes and the mud stains that covered them. A few pieces of straw stuck out from her hair, as if she'd been rolling around in the stables, and her pony was breathing hard.

"You don't have to call me _lady_ , you know," she said, sounding irritated by the title.

"Okay then. You can just call me Freya."

"I know."

"What are you doing out here?"

"I came to see where you were going. You're not leaving, are you?"

"No, I just thought I'd take my horse out for a bit to stretch his legs."

Arya looked up at the big white horse and then brought her gaze down to the sword at Freya's hip.

"Can you teach me to fight like you? I asked Ser Rodrik to teach me, but mother said it isn't proper for a lady to take up a sword. I don't care. I don't want to learn stupid needlework with my sister. Everyone says she's _so good_ at everything, but I don't want to be like her. I don't want to be a proper lady. I want to be like you."

Freya was forcing back a grin as she listened to the young girl.

"You know, I was like your sister when I was very young."

Arya looked skeptical at the thought.

"I liked dressing up, and singing, and learning instruments, and reading books. I still like reading and I even still sing occasionally, though you'd never catch me doing it in front of anyone. But it took me a long time to learn how to fight. Don't tell anyone I said this, but it's not as easy as it looks."

"So, _can_ you teach me?"

Freya grabbed a hold of the pony's reins as he began to wander off, and handed them to Arya, who took them with a frown, thinking that she was refusing to help. Freya clicked her tongue at her own horse, and he began to follow as she walked with the girl.

"Do you have your own sword, Arya?"

"No, of course not. They won't let me. I could steal one, though. I mean borrow one. Just for a while. I'd give it back."

"Haven't you ever asked your brothers to teach you?"

"They do, sometimes. Jon doesn't mind, he's really good. But you beat him and Robb. You're better than they are, you should teach me."

"I suppose I could. We should use wooden swords first. They're much lighter, and easier for beginners. But, yes, I can teach you."

Arya seemed noticeably happier after that, smiling as they walked back to Winterfell.

"What did you call your wolf?" Freya asked.

"Nymeria. After Nymeria the warrior-queen of Rhoynar. She's smarter than the others. Watch. Nymeria! Nymeria, come here!"

The direwolf looked back at the girl but made no move to approach her.

"Well, she usually does what I say," she explained. "I heard my brothers talking about you, you know. Robb said he could beat you in a fight, that you were just pretending to be a knight, and that you probably couldn't even lift your sword. He's so stupid sometimes. Jon said he thought you were nice looking."

"Did he now?"

"But Robb said you'd probably been with all the knights and would probably never marry because who would want a wife who's been with all the knights?"

"Where were you when you heard them say these things?" Freya asked.

"Hiding. I'm very good at hiding, you know. They didn't even know I was there."

They walked in silence for a while, watching Nymeria chase a rabbit out from under a bush. She nipped at its tail, but soon gave up the chase when it disappeared into a burrow outside the gate.

Once the horse and pony were unsaddled and brushed down, Arya led Freya to the armory and acquired a couple of wooden practice swords for them to use. Freya had left Ferox's stall door unlocked, leaving him free to follow her about the yard as she prepared Arya for her first lesson.

They had just taken up their positions when Lady Catelyn stepped out from the library tower.

"Arya Stark, what do you think you're doing?"

Freya lowered her sword and caught Arya roll her eyes, wondering if she'd just given Lady Catelyn an excuse to kick her out of Winterfell. The older woman approached them with a look of displeasure.

"She said she'd teach me to fight," Arya said, but that only seemed to irritate her mother further.

"Arya, go find you sister. Septa Mordane has been looking for you all afternoon. Now, Arya!" With a scowl and a frustrated growl, she did as she was told, leaving her wooden sword with Freya, who was trying not to look too sheepish in front of the lady of the castle. Catelyn turned to her then, her eyes glowing with a mother's anger.

"Lady Freya, I would appreciate it if you didn't encourage my daughter to undertake such dangerous activities. And since you are a guest in my home, I would also appreciate if you would keep your horse _inside_ the stables."

She pursed her lips, but Freya could see she had no intention of asking her to leave, as she had first feared. She knew that women didn't think much of her, and oftentimes men even less, but she also knew that most were too polite to say or do anything about it, and so she used their good grace to her advantage.

"My apologies, Lady Stark. I meant no offense, truly."

Catelyn did not seem convinced, but nodded anyway, dismissing the younger woman from her presence.

Freya clicked her tongue and Ferox followed her back towards the stable obediently, only once turning back to look at Lady Stark, who stood watching them go as if to make sure Freya did as she was asked.

When she'd fixed Ferox up in his stall, Freya returned to collect the practice swords to return them to the armory, and it was on her way there that she heard a cry go up from the north wall. By the time she reached the grounds below it, a small crowd had already gathered, and she caught sight of the maester hurrying after a group of men who had something bundled between them. Just behind them was Lady Catelyn, tears streaming down her face as she made attempts to get to whatever it was the men were carrying.

"What happened?" Freya asked the closest person.

"It's young Bran. He's fallen from the tower," they told her.


	4. Chapter 4: The Dogs

**Chapter Four: The Dogs**

The king's hunting party returned a day later with the spoils of a successful hunt. They brought back with them four deer, one small wolf, a number of pheasants and several foxes; some to be sent forth to the kitchens for that night's celebratory feast, and the rest to be skinned for the lining of cloaks and gloves.

Watching the men dismount, all of them looking tired and unwashed, yet still chatting merrily with one another, she half-wished she had gone with them. She caught the gaze of Jory Cassel and approached.

"Tell me, did I miss much?" she asked, giving his horse a pat as he dismounted.

"Not really, my lady. We fared better than I would have thought for this time of year."

Though the bruise on his face from where she'd struck him was looking better than it had been, it still had a touch of purple discoloration around its edges.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he told her, and she realized she'd been staring.

"Some might say it…adds character," she said, unable to keep from blushing at her stupid response.

Jory smiled, finding her reaction rather endearing. She had been on his mind quite a lot since their fight, only in these thoughts he wasn't conquering her in combat, but in the bedroom. Now, as she raised her eyes to meet his, the glint of mischief he saw in them told him that maybe he hadn't been alone in these thoughts.

* * *

Freya was already up by the time Jory woke early the following morning, standing naked over her desk as she flicked through the pages of a large book. Hearing him stir, she turned, long locks of hair falling across her breasts. Her cheeks were flushed and her grey eyes still held the softness of sleep, so when she offered him a pleasant smile she seemed all the more beautiful. He couldn't help but stare as she crossed the room, her hips swaying enticingly with each step.

"How did you sleep?" she asked, her mouth twisting up at one corner like she knew.

He made a soft, sleepy sound before saying, "Quite well. And you?"

She lay down on the bed beside him, propped up on one elbow, and gave him a swift and sweet peck on the lips.

"What little sleep we actually got."

He smiled at that and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with thoughtful eyes. Freya traced her fingers along his bare stomach and saw him stiffen beneath the sheets. She bit her lip.

"Do you think we have time before you're needed in the castle?" she asked him, her hand reaching down and leaving him with little choice.

Rolling her onto her back, he positioned himself between her legs and leant down to kiss her, sighing as she ran her fingers through his hair. He looked into her eyes as he entered her, enjoying the look of pleasure that spread across her face as he began his steady rhythm.

"We'll have to make it quick," he said. And she gave no objection to that.

* * *

Sandor was crossing the courtyard with Joffrey, heading for breakfast in the hall, when he spotted Freya and Jory over by the stables. There was something different about the woman, he thought; her eyes were brighter and her smile now playful. It didn't take a genius to know what the two had been up to. Completely ignoring Joffrey as the young prince prattled on about his part in the hunt, the Hound instead focused on the anger that was building inside of him. He'd learnt long ago that he'd never be a woman's first choice; not with so many more eligible men available for them to marry and take to bed. Yet he'd spent so much time in the Wolfswood wondering how he might go about talking to Freya if he chose to, what he might say that wouldn't frighten her away, and thinking of how she always seemed to have a smile for him, that seeing her with Jory Cassel made him itch for his sword.

"Dog, are you listening to me?" Joffrey asked.

He followed the man's line of sight and smirked.

"Is my Dog looking for a bitch to lay with? From what I've heard, you'd be better off asking for one from the kennel master."

Sandor turned his gaze on the boy, and for a second Joffrey felt genuinely frightened of the huge man. Then Sandor's expression changed, retreating from the ridicule of those he was made to serve, and he continued on towards the hall.

"Come, before the food's all cold."

Joffrey glanced back at the two by the stables, then sneered and followed his loyal dog to breakfast.

* * *

Dinner in the hall that night turned out to be of no great consequence, since the Starks were too stricken with grief over Bran's fall to take any joy from the meal. Lady Catelyn did not make an appearance; she had been by her son's bed since the terrible accident, and there were whispers that she neither slept nor ate. When Freya had gone to her the night before to offer her condolences, she was met only with a cold gaze from the mother who was forced to see her little boy in such a horrible state. Her eyes had been tired and red from crying, but they did not lack the fierceness Freya had seen in them the day Catelyn had caught her preparing to teach Arya to fight.

Feeling quite as if she's overstayed her welcome, Freya did not show to dinner, either. Nor did Jory. She never felt unwelcome with him, especially not when he stared at her the way he did, as if her interest in him was too good to be true. In truth, though, she was fairly sure he was just fascinated with her breasts, so she smothered him with them every chance she got. And though he loved to run his mouth over every inch of them, he never seemed to want to go any further south with that tongue of his. Whenever he kissed along her belly, she would lay there, hoping with every inch of her body, that he might finally make his way down – she had even, on a few occasions when she had been particularly desperate, attempted to guide him there; but he would always end up distracting her with his fingers, as if to show that they were just as good. And they were. If he weren't such a sweet, gentle man, she might have had the mind to press the matter further.

They lay together now; Jory dead to the world in a post-sex sleep coma, and Freya wide awake with her fingers laced through his long, soft tresses. She had told him that morning that he had much finer hair than she did, hers being so thick and wild, but he had only laughed and then proceeded to name all the parts _she_ had that were far finer than anything of his, starting with her eyes and working his way down. She wasn't sure if it was happiness that she felt as she lay beside him, but definitely some sort of contentment (though that feeling may have just been a result of their latest round of lovemaking). Either way, she knew it best not to get too attached, for they would soon be parting ways when the king finally decided to take his leave of Winterfell. Since Robert had asked Lord Stark to take on the role of the King's Hand, and since Ned had little choice but to except his old friend's request, Jory was certain to head south to King's Landing, while Freya rode north for the Wall.

She would have Tyrion for company, she supposed, and the strange little man was certain to prove an interesting companion for such a long journey, with his witty japes and curious stories. And perhaps, in time, Jon Snow would come to trust her too, and she would have him to talk with on the nights when Tyrion was too drunk to stay awake. And when all else failed, there was always Ferox. Though she was beginning to believe Sandor Clegane's words; that perhaps such conversations (one-sided though they were) _were_ unhealthy for someone to carry out with a horse. She chuckled in spite of herself and felt Jory's arm tighten around her waist. She rolled over and found him gazing at her.

"Sleep," he suggested, kissing her gently on the forehead. He pulled her closer and gave a long, tired sigh before sleep took him once more. As his steady breath warmed the top of her head, Freya felt her eye-lids grow heavy, and thought she might do just that.

* * *

They had stayed near on a fortnight, when King Robert finally decided it was time to take his leave of Winterfell. The food and wine stores were likely to breathe a sigh of relief at his departure, though the whores might find their pockets noticeably lighter for it.

As Freya entered the courtyard, helm in hand, with her things all ready for the trip north, she saw the Hound approaching, his expression uncertain as if he wasn't quite sure he wanted to talk to her.

"You haven't seen the Imp, have you? The queen's been looking for him."

"Have you misplaced him?" she smiled.

"A man so small is easily misplaced," he replied, and she laughed at that.

"I'll help you look, if you like," she offered, placing her things on the ground by her horse. "It's not like she'll be leaving without him."

"I wouldn't be so sure."

As they walked together across the courtyard, Freya heard Ferox's familiar whinny from behind her. The horse stared at her and took a step forward, as if he were worried she was leaving him behind.

"Stay," she told him, and he shook his mane but made no move to follow.

"Strange animal, that," Sandor commented, as they reached the library tower, the first place Freya had suggested searching.

"So I hear. Tell me, did you search the whorehouses first? That'd be the first place I'd have looked."

"He wasn't there."

"Hm. Might be he's stocking up on wine for the trip."

"I asked 'round the kitchen, checked the dining hall, all of that."

They reached the bottom of the long, winding staircase that led up to Winterfell's library, and Freya climbed the first few steps before turning back. On the fourth step, she found she was almost level with huge man, and their eyes met easily.

"If he's not in the library doing a little last minute browsing, then I'm at a loss."

Sandor didn't say anything, but moved closer, and for a moment Freya thought he was going to take a hold of her. But his gaze fell and he said, "Be quick. The queen's not known for her patience."

Freya worked her way up to the top of the tower, but found no trace of the missing man. She thought it very likely that he had simply gotten drunk the night before and passed out somewhere around the castle. Before she left, she chose out a couple of interesting volumes for the road, hoping Catelyn wouldn't mind; but with young Bran in his current condition, she found it unlikely anyone would be keeping track of the library's inventory.

"No sign of him," Freya announced as she descended. Sandor looked up, then noticed the books in her hands and gave her a questioning look.

"I plan to return them," she assured him, not appreciating the accusatory undertones in his expression.

Prince Joffrey joined them, then, an annoying smirk plastered on his face as he looked from one person to the other.

"Any luck, Dog?" he asked Sandor, ignoring Freya. She caught the hateful glint in Sandor's eye at the name Joffrey had used, and she recalled the question she'd wanted to ask him involving a sharp sword and the young prince's belly.

The dogs in the kennel took up a furious racket then, and they went to see what was causing the commotion. Freya found Ferox with his head stuck over the fence, snorting at the hounds as he nudged at something on the ground. Tyrion lay fast asleep amongst the dogs' soiled straw, sleeping off whatever alcohol he'd ingested the night before. He woke only when Ferox began to nibble at a lock of his blonde hair, shooing the beast away as he tried to recall where he was.

A smug look settled on Joffrey's face.

"Better looking bitches than you're used to, Uncle," the boy quipped, leaning up against the fence. "My mother's been looking for you. We ride for King's Landing today."

Tyrion blinked at him and then glanced at Freya, who was busy moving Ferox away from the animals he'd upset. As his thoughts became less clouded, Tyrion offered Joffrey the only thing he could think of at that particular moment.

"Before you go, you are to call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer them your sympathies."

Joffrey scoffed at that, not quite sure if taking the advice of a man covered in dog shit was the best idea.

"What good will my sympathies do them?" he asked, as his uncle threw open the kennel gate. Tyrion exchanged a look with Freya, embarrassed to have her see him in such a state, but hoping her better nature would allow her see past it. As the lord spoke with his nephew, she busied herself with her mischievous steed.

"It is expected of you," Tyrion explained, "Your absence has already been noted."

"The boy means nothing to me," Joffrey replied, "Besides, I can't stand the wailing of women."

He turned then to look at back at Sandor, as if he thought he would find that funny, but the man's face was void of any semblance of humor, and when he faced Tyrion once more, he was met with a hard slap.

Freya looked on, her face as emotionless as Sandor's, but it took a lot of effort not to cringe. She was certainly no fan of prince, but by the second and third slap, she was quite sure Tyrion had gotten his point across. Feeling slightly uncomfortable, she led Ferox back towards the stable, pretending to scold him for his disobedience.

"The prince will remember that, little lord," Sandor told Tyrion, watching Joffrey stalk off, most likely heading straight for his mother to tell her what awful things his uncle had done to him. Tyrion, however, did not fear his sister. She could not dislike him anymore than she already did; besides, he wouldn't have to see her for a good while between his journey to the Wall and the even longer return journey to King's Landing.

"I hope so," he replied to the much taller man, "But if he forgets, be a good dog and remind him."

Sandor said nothing to that, but looked up, expecting to see Freya still standing there listening to them. Tyrion followed the man's gaze, frowned, and then looked back, watching his expression slowly change; the resentment appeared to leave his eyes, replaced by something gentler as he watched Lady Freya from afar. Tyrion slipped away, knowing it would be better for his health if the Hound didn't know he'd been caught in a moment of weakness.

Tying the last of her things to Ferox's saddle, oblivious to Sandor's gaze, Freya noticed Jaime Lannister over by the blacksmith's forge, speaking with Jon Snow. Jon did not look at all comfortable about the situation. Even from where she stood Freya could see the distress in the boy's eyes, and men like Jaime Lannister were hard to shake once they caught the scent of fear.

"Ser Jaime," she called, approaching the pair with long, graceful strides, "If you've the time, how about that duel?"

"Oh, now's not great," he said, turning away from the boy, his voice full of mock-regret. "Perhaps one day the gods will smile on us and grant us a mutually agreeable moment to finally settle the whole thing."

"I look forward to it."

"As you said. Yet I find it hard to see how someone can look forward to their own defeat."

"I don't go down easily."

"That's not what I've heard," he replied, tossing a meaningful look towards Jory, who was speaking with Lord Eddard as they saddled their horses.

Freya clenched her jaw, unwilling to give in to his attempts at provocation. She glanced back at Jon and saw him concentrating on the blacksmith's work as if he were trying to avoid her gaze. She didn't blame him.

"Do me a favor while you're at the Wall? Make sure my brother doesn't slip over the edge or, gods forbid, decide to take the black."

"I owe you no favors."

"That you don't."

"Besides, I look out for all my friends, no matter who their kin may be."

"A friend is he? He's always kept strange company, my brother."

"I imagine he didn't have much choice as a child."

Jaime chuckled, and for a moment he seemed a different person, as if a simple smile could retract some of that infamous Lannister cruelty his sister seemed to carry in spades. Then he turned back to Jon and offered the boy his hand. Jon hesitated, but took it, afraid of looking cowardly in front of a knight.

"I almost forgot. Let me thank you ahead of time," Jaime said, feigning sincerity as he stared down at him, "for guarding us from all the perils beyond the Wall. Wildlings and white walkers and whatnot."

Realizing he was being mocked, Jon tried to pull his hand back, but Jaime was far stronger. He tightened his grip and pulled the boy closer. "We're grateful to have good, strong men like you protecting us."

With that, he clapped Jon on the shoulder and turned to walk away, but not before he was met with Freya's cold stare. He stopped in front of her, doing his best to invade her personal space, but she stood her ground. Jaime caught her sword hand move ever so slightly towards her blade, but as a swordsman himself he knew it was only a reflex. Smirking, he turned away and strolled off to join his siblings.

Freya turned to face the young man and sighed.

"You shouldn't have done that," Jon said, knowing exactly why she had interfered.

"Is that your way of saying thanks?"

"I didn't need your help."

"Force of habit," she told him.

"What do you mean?"

"Standing up to pricks like Jaime Lannister."

"You shouldn't talk about him like that. The man's a knight."

"Still with the 'shoulds' and 'shouldn'ts', I see. Knight or not, the man's a prick. Don't tell me you enjoyed being humiliated."

The blacksmith was watching the exchange casually as he oiled a sword.

Jon looked away from her, unsure of what to say. She'd made him look weak yet again, he knew; a woman standing up for a man. He wasn't sure if he should be thankful or annoyed. A little of both, perhaps.

"You're coming to the Wall?" he asked, changing the subject, "My uncle Benjen mentioned it."

"Yes. Something you and I have in common – we both have uncles in the Night's Watch."

"But women aren't allowed at the Wall."

"Why? Do they think the men have no control of themselves? Might be you're right, since the Night's Watch has its fair share of rapers. Still…"

"Every man swears an oath," Jon said, with the kind of conviction only ignorance could allow.

"Please," she scoffed, "if you think any of those men take their vows of celibacy seriously, you're in for a surprise. It makes no difference if I go, since most of the men waste their coin on the whores of Mole's Town."

"Mole's Town? But their vows are sacred. They can't just–"

"They're men, Jon, just like you. And all men have their needs. There are certain things that no simple vows can put a stop to."

"What would you know about it?"

She gave an involuntary bark of laughter, and Jon narrowed his eyes.

"Forgive me. You've every right to defend the Watch. They're brave men, every one of them, and unlike Jaime, I actually mean what I say. They chose a life of service over a quick and easy death, and I've heard it's no easy life. You'll be a ranger, I bet. You might even fight by my uncle's side, one day."

"I'd like to be a ranger," Jon said absentmindedly. The blacksmith finished running his cloth over the sword, and presented it to Jon, who held it lightly in his hand to check the balance.

"Not for you, I expect?" Freya asked. The blade was small and thin, built for speed rather than strength.

"No," Jon admitted, then he glanced up, wondering whether it was safe to tell. "It's a gift."

"I think I know the intended recipient," Freya smiled. "May I?"

Jon passed it to her, and watched her hold it up before making a few slicing motions with it. Her stance was odd, he thought, different to when she'd fought him and Robb. He wondered which of her supposed 'master swordsmen' had taught her to stand such a way. Freya tested the balance of it one more time before she nodded her approval and passed it back to him.

"Just don't let your mothe– uh, Lady Stark see. She gave me quite a talking to when she caught me offering the little one a lesson in combat."

"You were going to teach her?"

"She asked me. How could I resist? She reminds me of myself at her age."

"I'll tell her it's from both of us, then. She'll like that."

Freya hoped that meant he'd finally forgiven her for all the humiliation she'd put him through since her arrival. Most of it she hadn't meant, but then she'd always had trouble picking the right thing to say. Sometimes things just slipped out.


	5. Chapter 5: The Imp's Story

**Chapter Five: The Imp's Story**

"So, do you think you'll make it back to King's Landing, or are had you planned on going off on some solo adventure to terrorize unsuspecting men?"

In a quiet moment before they were set to leave, Freya had managed to get Jory alone in the armory, where he was collecting a few last minute items for the trip. He had taken one of her hands in his and was running his fingertips along the lengths of her fingers, his expression hopeful.

"I'm sure I'll make it back eventually. Unless I should happen to find myself stolen away by some brave, handsome man, forced to live out the rest of my days as his reluctant bedslave."

"Reluctant?"

"It could happen."

They exchanged playful smiles and he kissed her one last time in a way that made sure she would not forget him.

Tyrion was already mounted and waiting with Benjen and Jon when Freya finally appeared. Ferox was with them, nipping playfully at Ghost, who returned the behavior with a little too much enthusiasm. Soon they would have to let him go off hunting on his own, lest he should turn on one of their own animals.

"Ghost!" Jon called, and the direwolf ran to him obediently. Catching sight of Freya, Ferox snorted and walked over to her. She picked up her helm and swung herself gracefully up into the saddle, giving her faithful steed a pat on the neck.

 _A fox_ , Jon finally realized, staring at the helm as Freya caught up to them. At first he had thought it was a wolf, but now that he really looked at it, the snout was much too narrow, and the ears too big. He wondered what made her choose that animal. Perhaps, like the Hound, it was the sigil of her house. Then again, he didn't know what her house was. He had never even heard her full name, now that he thought of it.

"What wrong, Jon? You look a tad confused," Freya said, once they were outside the gates and making their way across the very same field she had walked through with Arya.

"The fox," he began, motioning to her helm, "Is it the sigil of your house?"

"It is," she replied.

"I thought the fox was the sigil of House Florent?" Tyrion drew up beside them, not wanting to miss out on any of the conversation. He had apparently found time to bathe, since he no longer stank of dog shit, and had managed to sober up some in that time, too.

"That's true," Freya admitted. "The Bainharts and the Florents both hold land in the Reach, but we're not related by blood. My grandfather created our sigil himself after he was made a lord, and my father said the same thing you just did. 'They can keep their bloody flowers', my grandfather told him, 'A fox has cunning, it has no need for pretty things.' I imagine my grandmother wouldn't have liked that very much. But a fox stalking across a field of forest green, that's the way our banners remained. "

"A fox would seem appropriate," Tyrion thought aloud, "Swift, cunning and good hunters."

"Yes, I hear they can really swing a sword, too," Freya joked.

"Was the helm a gift?" Jon asked, "It's fine work."

"A gift? Of sorts, I guess. I had enough coin from a tourney I'd placed second in, so I sought out one of the finest blacksmiths in King's Landing, and it was there I found a talented young apprentice the smithy had recently taken on. I explained to him what I wanted, and this was what he came up with. He seemed to think I was having it made for someone else; that is until I had him take my measurements for a full suit of new armor. He didn't much like that, though I can't say I gave him an easy time about it."

She smirked at the recollection.

"Making young men uncomfortable? Doesn't sound like you at all," said Tyrion.

"Nonetheless, I was happy with the final product and paid them both handsomely. I even threw in a little tip for the apprentice, for having to endure my immaturity."

"Do you intend on giving us the same tip?" Tyrion asked, and Jon managed a smile.

"Me? You're the one with all the money. Perhaps you should be paying us."

Tyrion smiled, but Freya could tell it was forced. She scolded herself for once again speaking without thinking, though she wasn't quite sure what it was she had said to offend him.

They rode in silence until they neared the edge of the Wolfswood that bordered the Kingsroad, exchanging a few brief words with Benjen and the other couple of men he was bringing back with him, regarding the landscape and the coming winter. It was here that they decided to make camp for the night.

They had barely entered the true north and already the cold seemed to sharpen, the winds working hard to find a way into any gaps in their clothing in an effort to destroy any warmth they might have cultivated. Freya drew her cloak closer around her shoulders and tugged at the bottom of her gloves.

"It's colder than I remember," she said to Benjen, as she helped him raise a crude shelter.

"Winter is coming," he replied. "And this is nothing compared to the Wall."

"As I remember well."

Her uncle was the first thing she thought of when she considered the Wall, but in close second was the bone-chilling, muscle-stiffening cold that the Night's Watch was forced to endure every day. Just thinking about it made her feel sorry for Jon all over again; he surely didn't know what he was getting into.

Once the shelters were up and they had a fire going, Freya went in search of Tyrion, who had wandered off with a book in one hand and a wineskin in the other. He'd confessed to having no knowledge of building a camp, since he'd always had squires and such to do it for him, and so rather than get in the way, he opted for a little time away to himself.

He glanced up when he heard Freya approach, then went back to his book.

"What I said earlier…it was a jape, nothing more. I meant nothing by it."

"I know," he replied, with the same thin-lipped smile he had answered the original words with.

"But I thought…I mean…it seemed to upset you."

Tyrion closed his book and placed it on his lap before pulling his furs closer around him. He was still for a moment, as if contemplating his next words.

"Were you ever married, Freya?"

The question was so out of the blue that for a moment she didn't know what to say.

"No. Never. I was betrothed once, but, uh, it didn't exactly work out."

"Ah. Might I ask why?"

"Do you really have to?" she chuckled. "My father made an agreement with the lad's father for us to be married as soon as I was flowered, and even after my own father's death, Lord Royce took it upon himself to uphold the agreement. He requested my presence, and I humored him, but by then I had no intention of marrying some lord's son, or anyone, for that matter. The look on Waymar's face when I rode up dressed in my armor, I'll never forget that. It still makes me laugh. Didn't stop him from trying to talk me out of it and into his bed, but when he finally realized he would be getting neither that nor my hand in marriage, he rode off to join the Night's Watch."

"Seems a bit drastic, doesn't it?"

"Well, not since I was his only real chance to gain some land for himself. Don't get me wrong, he was a handsome lad, but he was a real ass."

She took out her dirk and a whetstone and began to work on the blade's edge while she spoke.

"So what did I say?"

Tyrion sighed, chuckled and then looked up at her.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Well, the way I see it, I'm likely to travel with you back to King's Landing after you've had your fill of the Wall, and if we're going to be companions on the road, we can't have any ill feelings between us, can we?"

He was pleased to hear that, since he had been meaning to ask her to continue on with him anyway, but he hadn't really thought she'd want to. She seemed much more likely to simply wander off.

"Fine, if it will make you feel better."

"It will. Please."

She gestured with her dirk for him to begin. He sighed before he spoke, as if his breath would clear the dust from his old memories.

"When I was a young man, barely thirteen, my brother and I were on our way back to Casterly Rock when we came upon a young woman being assaulted by a gang of bandits. Now being the gallant lads we were, Jaime chased the men off into the forest whilst I took the young woman, who called herself Tysha, back to an inn for some food and drink. She was more than grateful for the rescue, and after I'd gotten some food and drink into her, she proved to be a little more than grateful."

Over the two weeks he had spent in Winterfell, Tyrion had found himself often in the company of Freya, in between his meals and his whores; any excuse to avoid his family and the Starks. He did found himself strangely fascinated by the young woman, as she went around acting like one of the men whilst somehow managing to maintain the gentle look of a lady.

They would sit and talk beneath the white weirwood for hours, and for once Tyrion found himself able to speak about things he actually enjoyed, things besides politics and conspiracies. They discussed the books they'd read, their shared and differing opinions on certain texts, the tourneys they'd attended, the people they'd met and the adventures they'd had across Westeros. Though Freya had considerably more stories to share, Tyrion's had at least been amusing. But this particular story was not one he had intended to ever tell her. Yet when he glanced at her and saw her rapt expression, he knew he had to finish.

 _She will not judge you,_ he told himself, _She never has before, why would she now?_

"I…I had never been with a woman before then, and so you must understand that for a girl to have shown even the slightest bit of interest in me seemed a miracle. I didn't know what to think. I couldn't think! She led me up to one of the rooms where she proceeded to give me a more thorough 'thank-you'. By the time morning came, I was very much in love with her. Within the day we were married and I was happier than I thought I could ever be. Then my father found out."

He could see from her expression that she had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. Tywin Lannister was notoriously unforgiving, and even his own children had never been shown the kind of mercy a parent might bestow upon their offspring.

"He made my brother confess the truth. That the whole thing had been arranged by Jaime, and that Tysha was in fact a whore he'd paid to fuck his little brother, since he apparently didn't think me capable of ever finding a girl who would do so voluntarily. My father then ordered Tysha be brought in and forced me to watch while each of his men had a turn with her, giving her a silver coin for each man. By the end of it, the coins were spilling from her hand, and still my father had not finished with his lesson. He forced me to go last. For me, she received a gold coin. Lannisters are worth more, you see."

He could not hide the bitterness in his voice as he spoke, but Freya hadn't even noticed. She was still listening, but she couldn't find anything to say. What could she possibly say to that? 'Sorry'? 'My condolences'?

'Words are wind' she'd often heard men say, and now she knew exactly what they meant by it.

"I suppose Jaime meant well," Tyrion continued. "So, does that clear things up?"

"I…Uh, yes. I mean, you didn't have to…I'm sorry I made you relive that."

"Not half as sorry as I was _having_ lived it, I assure you. But never mind that," the dwarf chuckled, though the sound was forced, "Let's go see about some food."

He got to his feet and started for the camp, sipping from his wineskin, but Freya hung back. Realizing he wasn't being followed, Tyrion turned and found his companion sporting a distant look. For a moment he was worried he had divulged too much, but then she seemed to collect herself, smiling in the crooked way he'd grown fond of.

"Alright, but you're sharing that wineskin. The wine the black brothers brought with them tastes like piss."

* * *

As the small group sat around the fire, waiting for the stew that would be their dinner, another cluster of men joined them, each with their hands tied, led by a sworn brother by the name of Yoren. Jon watched the newcomers with cautious curiosity.

"Rapers," he heard Tyrion whisper, and glanced over to where the small man sat beside Freya, "It was castration or the Wall. Most choose the knife."

"Some would say there's no difference," Freya replied, watching as Yoren led the soon-to-be-brothers to a spot not far from the camp. One of them was staring at her, though whether he was simply surprised to see a woman travelling with them, or if his thoughts ventured down a darker path, she could not say. Glancing back at Jon, she caught his expression, much the same as it had been when Jaime had confronted him back in Winterfell.

Taking out her dirk to sharpen while she waited, Freya heard a sound, faint yet undeniable.

"How is it?" one of the brothers asked, as another tasted the stew. He made a face and the other laughed. They both looked to Freya out of instinct, hoping a woman's touch might be just what their dinner needed. But if they held any expectation of Freya's cooking abilities, they were sadly mistaken: she'd be lucky not to burn the water.

Tyrion glanced up at her as she got to her feet, her eyes trained on something in the darkness. Ghost's ears pricked up and he gave a whine.

"Ghost, stay," Jon ordered.

The bound men, who sat with their back against a tree a few feet from the main camp, watched the lady approach, confused by her drawn blade. One of them nudged the man beside him, who had been slipping into an uncomfortable doze. They watched her edge closer, suddenly uncomfortable by her proximity and the naked steel in her grip.

Taking her dirk by the very tip, Freya took aim and flung it into the dark. A small cry sounded, then a 'thunk' as the blade met with a tree. Freya returned to the campfire moments later, carrying her bounty, a large rabbit fit for a stew. She slid her dirk from its belly and handed it to one of the brothers, blood dripping down her hand and arm.

"Here. This ought to make a better meal of that," she told him, nodding to the kettle as he stirred its contents. He just stared at her. Benjen Stark approached them and chuckled when he saw the man's face.

"You know how to skin a rabbit, I trust?" he asked him, clapping him on the back. The brother gave a nod and hurried off to prepare the meat.

"Hunting skills haven't gotten rusty, I see," Benjen commented, warming his hands over the fire.

"I wasn't at Winterfell that long, was I?" she replied, wiping the blood from her blade onto the front of her breeches.

"Over a month, at the very least. Though I don't recall you as one to remain in one place for too long."

"I was in good company."

"And I suppose the food and warm bed was welcome, too?"

"You don't often find much of either on the road," she agreed, "but then there's only so much I can take of, uh, royal company."

"Last time you were at the Wall, I distinctly remember your uncle advising you to watch your words."

"Yes, and I told him to watch the Wall, as he swore an oath to do."

Benjen chuckled once more. It was true Freya was often a little too free with what she said, and it had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion, but there was no trouble, she would have said, that could not be answered with a blade, and her Valyrian steel had the ability to bring a quick end to even the most heated debate.

Tyrion offered her his wineskin when she finally returned to her spot beside him, and she accepted gratefully.

"I think you owe each of those men a new set of smallclothes," he told her, nodding towards the bound men, who still watched her with some apprehension.

"I wasn't even close to hitting them," Freya argued, after a sip of wine, "Besides, if they're as guilty as you say, they'd deserve worse."

"And then you'd owe the Night's Watch more men. They're stretched thin as it is, from what I've been hearing."

"A pity they won't accept women, then."

"Ah, yes. Send a bunch of women to live and fight beside a group of rapers. Good plan."

She threw him a look and took another sip of wine before handing the skin back to him.

"Not all of them are rapers. Some are murderers…"

He laughed.

"I really do have to wonder, though, what compels a man to volunteer for such a life, though. Bone-chilling cold and no women to warm your bed. I couldn't imagine a greater hell."

"There's honor," a new voice joined them. Jon, who sat a few feet away oiling his blade, looked none too happy with their conversation. "Knowing that you're protecting your people from what lies on the other side of that wall."

"And what, I ask, do you suppose that might be? Grumpkins and snarks?"

"They're not as easy to take down as you might think," Freya joked, before throwing Jon an apologetic look. "I must say, though, I do admire the men who choose to go. My uncle did, and for that I look up to him. The conditions they endure whilst faced with those uncertainties of what invisible foes might be watching them from afar…It takes men of true steel."

Jon's mood seemed to improve some after hearing that, but from the look he gave her, Freya knew that Tyrion saw right through every word.

The stew was served soon after, and though the rabbit seemed to add only the slightest of flavor, with the right seasoning it wasn't so bad. The vegetables were roughly cut in the manner of men better versed with slicing other men with swords, than with the smaller scale implement used in the kitchen. It was no feast fit for a king, but the way Freya saw it, the best part of that was that it meant no king was present.

Towards the end of her stay at Winterfell, she had grown genuinely concerned that the king would summon her to his bedchambers, as he'd been said to do with some of the other women around Winterfell, and so she had been sure to make quick work of her meals before spending the rest of her day in Jory's modest dwelling, or in the Godswood with Tyrion, reading.  
On a couple of occasions King Robert had caught her on her way out, but aside from asking about her sword and where she had acquired it, the worst he had done was stumble drunkenly into her and administer an accidental grope of her breast. At least she thought it was accidental. Gods bless the drunken king – it was rare he was even sober enough to know which woman he was feeling up. Yet his interest in Freya had still given the queen more reason to hate her. It was not a pleasant thing to be looked upon by Queen Cersei the way that Freya was; she had grown to understand why some people were frightened of her. And while the queen shared the beauty and ferocity of her twin, she lacked Ser Jaime's charm, though the quality of that particular kind of charm was debatable.

As the night progressed, it grew colder still. Ferox found a soft patch of grass to lie on, and Freya soon joined him, resting back against her steed's side as she pulled her cloak closer around her. She glanced around the camp, though most of the men had already turned in for the night, and stared at the dying embers of the campfire. Every so often, Yoren, who had volunteered to take first watch, stoked the coals, but if it was an effort to get the flames going once more, and he failed to yield a result. Not far from where she sat, Tyrion lay curled up beneath a few layers of furs, and she could only just see the very top of his head, a mess of blonde hair amongst the wolfskins.

Jon also lay nearby, asleep beneath his cloak, with his direwolf pup beside him for warmth. As she gazed at him, Freya felt another wave of regret for what he was about to face. A bastard though he might be, she was certain he had no idea what he was truly in for, though she did not doubt his ability to see it through. He was a strong warrior, she knew that from experience, and he was still young; enough time yet for him to practice, and she knew for a fact that the Night's Watch provided tough training for new members.

Ferox whickered and nibbled at her hands, sensing her thoughtful trance. She scratched him behind the ear and shifted into a more comfortable position to sleep. More than anything she wanted Jory by her side, keeping her warm, but as she slipped into a peaceful doze, it was not he who entered her thoughts, but the towering figure of Sandor Clegane.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six: The Imp, The Ladyknight and The Bastard**

When the cold winds showed no sign of letting up the following day, Jon felt some of his hopes for the Wall blow away with them, likely returning to Winterfell where they would be much warmer. Looking over at Freya, who sat astride her large white horse with nothing more than her leathers and cloak to keep her warm, he saw no sign that the chill bothered her. She swapped stories with Tyrion as they continued their journey to Castle Black, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink.  
Jon had heard a little of the story of how she'd acquired her steed, but looking at it now, the way its thick coat moved in the wind, and the sure-footed steps it took through the slippery layer of frost that covered the road, there was little doubt that it was a creature from beyond the Wall. Freya barely seemed to touch the reins, and Jon wondered if the horse knew this route, if it could sense it was close to its origins.

Ghost was close by, running along the edge of the forest, sniffing for prey. Though the direwolf had a habit of wandering ahead, Jon had been worried when he'd woken that morning to find no trace of his albino companion. After asking around, he eventually found the wolf with Freya down by a stream, where she had taken the horses to water them before the ride. While the horses had their fill, Jon had watched her play with the pup, splashing water at him and chasing him off when he got too close to the nervous mounts. The wolf seemed confident enough around the young woman, but since his defeat during the swordplay in Winterfell, Jon still hadn't quite managed to regain his own. He had thought of her many times since the fight, as young men are wont to do when in close contact with young women, but recalled his brother Robb's words and wondered if they were true, or if Robb had simply been bitter about his own defeat at her hands. Still, what business was it of his if she _had_ slept with all the knights? She still fought better than any man he'd ever met, and she was better company than most knights he had met, too.

Freya caught him deep in thought when she rode over, bringing Ferox up next to his own mount. She noticed a guilty look cross his face when he looked up.

"Sorry, did I catch you at a bad moment?"

"No," he replied, unconvincingly.

They rode in silence a while, as she allowed him grow more comfortable in her presence. She had a knack for sensing dispositions, yet another skill that had kept her alive on the road. Some people found it hard to trust, others trusted too easy, and luckily for the latter Freya was not one to take advantage of that, though she was often left wondering how soon it would be before someone finally did.

Finally, he spoke up.

"That horse of yours, did you train it?"

"What do you mean?"

"The way it follows you around, doesn't wander off. Did you teach it to do that?"

She shook her head and leant forward to give Ferox a pat. He gave a contented snort.

"I trust he's much like your direwolf, there," Freya said, nodding to Ghost, who had stopped to mark a tree, "You didn't train him to be loyal to you, you earned it."

Jon thought on that a while.

"But I've never known a horse to act like a dog."

"And yet here he stands," she smiled. "Since you'll be living out your days at the Wall, you best get used to the idea of the unusual. From the tales my uncle told, strange things happen on the other side. You'll likely face a number of things in your time."

"Old Nan used to tell us stories about creatures beyond the Wall when we were children."

"And you've grown out of them, have you?" Freya asked.

"They're just stories," Jon replied, shifting in his saddle.

"The funny thing about stories is that everyone tends to believe the tales that have the happy endings. Princes falling in love with princesses, knights claiming glory, all the do-gooders leaving happiness in their wake. No one seems to trust the tales of death, and dishonor, and fear. Those are the stories they should be listening to, they might learn something from them. Those are the ones written in blood, told with a dying breath. So, Jon Snow, what do you believe in?"

"I believe in what I can see with my own eyes."

"No princesses for you, then?"

"I always liked the bloodier tales. Old Nan would only tell them when Lady Stark wasn't around."

"I doubt she would have enjoyed having her little one's heads filled with that sort of thing. My mother was much the same. That's why I'd sneak out to the library every night and seek out the biggest, bloodiest tome I could find."

Jon chuckled.

"Histories of war, tales of disgraced knights, pages filled with swords clashing and towns burning. Sordid wenches pleasing their saviors. Now there's one they left out of the other stories."

"I don't think children need to hear that part," Jon said.

"No, I suppose not."

She took two apples from her saddlebag and tossed one to him.

"I've always found the north to be beautiful," she said, chewing thoughtfully, "It's the snow, I think. The south has its charms, but it's sadly ruined by its people. Once you leave King's Landing, though, it's not too bad. And it's quieter here, too."

A wind blew past them, catching on Freya's hair and whipping it around her face. She grabbed hold of it and tucked it beneath her shirt to keep it still. Tyrion drew up beside her and offered her a thin length of leather.

"You left this in the book you lent me last night. It was marking one of the pages, but I assume you were finished with it," he said.

"I am," she assured him, using the strip to secure her hair. "I was just saying how quiet it is in these parts. It's a nice change from the south."

"That would be the lack of inhabitants, I would think, but I agree. It does have its charm, though I must say I do prefer a little sun."

Jon listened to them as he rode, munching on his apple. He soon found himself being drawn into arguments, asked to be the final decider, though his answers never seemed to please either side. Still, it was fun to ride beside the odd pair and listen to their japes.

 _An Imp and a Ladyknight_ , Jon thought, _and a bastard_.

* * *

After they'd made camp that night, Tyrion and Freya seated themselves amongst the roots of a huge tree; Tyrion reading the book Freya had lent him, and Freya working away once again with her whetstone, this time on her Valyrian sword. The rippled metal drew a lot of attention, especially from the younger men who'd joined their group the night before – they had never seen real Valyrian steel, only heard stories about it. It gave them yet another reason to fear the odd woman.

Jon sat a little ways off, closer to the fire, watching them both until he couldn't hold back any longer.

"Why do you read so much?" he asked. He observed them both for a while now, at Winterfell and on the road, and it seemed they sat with book in hand almost every free moment.

Freya glanced up to see if the question was directed at both of them, but let Tyrion answer on her behalf anyway.

"For the same reason Freya, here, is constantly sharpening her sword. A mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge."

"Even if you're as lucky as Lord Tyrion, and were born with a mind like Valyrian steel," Freya added.

Tyrion laughed at that, and closed the book on his finger to keep his spot.

"My mind is my weapon, Jon Snow, just as that blade at your side is yours. There's no point keeping either if you allow them to get rusty. Knowing what I am, I have a realistic grasp of my strengths and weaknesses. And though I'll never be able to swing a sword like you or the lady, I sleep well at night knowing that my own weapon is still very much within my reach."

"And if anyone cares to know, I sleep with a dirk under my pillow, so I guess I can say much the same thing," Freya smiled.

As Jon pondered this, he felt something nuzzling his head, and turned to find Ferox sniffing at him. The horse gave a long snort, blowing Jon's dark curls around, and then returned to his owner's side. Jon furrowed his brow as the horse sat down on its haunches, beside Freya. It looked around and sniffed the air, then lay down, resting its head on her lap. Freya gave him an absentminded scratch behind the ear, before carefully returned her sword to its scabbard. She then commenced stroking gently along his head, running her fingers down his face to his muzzle before bringing them back up to his mane. The activity appeared to relax both horse and owner, as soon they had both drifted off into a comfortable doze.

* * *

It took a little over a week for them to reach the Wall, traveling with men on foot and horses lugging supplies, but by the time the entered the Gift, Freya could already feel Jon's anticipation. They reached a small rise, one Freya knew well, since it was where her pony had thrown her when she had made her first trip here alone. She did not know what had become of that pony, but she could only hope it had run off and gotten itself eaten by wolves, the little bastard it was. There had been a couple of horses after that, both of which had proven just as difficult to deal with as the first, and then her uncle had shown up with Ferox in tow.

As they reached the top of the rise, Freya kept an eye on Jon and Tyrion's faces, waiting for their reaction. Then the Wall came into view. The group came to a halt, and Benjen, who was leading, looked back at his nephew with a smile. Jon just stared, but whether it was in awe or dread, Freya didn't know – a little bit of both, perhaps. Tyrion appeared overcome by the beauty of it, and Freya knew the feeling; she'd felt the same way when she had first seen the massive structure, but it was nothing compared to standing on top of it.

"Welcome," said Benjen, but still Jon's gaze did not break.

* * *

The moment they entered the gates of Castle Black, Freya jumped gracefully from her horse and searched desperately for her uncle. She spotted a familiar mop of chestnut-brown hair and a large grin spread across her face.

"Uncle Rowan!"

The man turned around, his mouth twisted into a lop-sided smile. Rowan was a handsome man, in a scruffy, roguish kind of way, with warm brown eyes to match his hair. Though he had once been lithe in build, as was common in Freya's family, his years in the Watch had given him a body thick with muscle.  
It was said that Freya's father was the better looking of the two brothers, with a swagger to his walk and a cleverness that often led him to trouble, but since he was also said to have been an incomparable swordsman it was doubtful that this sort of trouble ever caused him any harm, aside from that to his reputation. She had trouble remembering what he had looked like, but often felt as though she saw some part of him in her uncle, and though she couldn't remember her mother either, her uncle had once told her that all she need do is glimpse into a looking glass, and she would see her mother once more.

"I thought I heard the sound of men crying off in the distance," he said, "Should have known you were on your way."

She pulled off her gloves and threw her arms around him, squeezing him tight.

"How are you, love?"

"Good as ever," she smiled, "And you?"

"I can't complain. I've got a soft bed and warm grub in my belly. I see you're still leading that beast around with you."

Ferox's ears flicked in their direction and he whinnied.

"Yes, I'm talking about you, you daft horse," Rowan said, walking over to him. Ferox's eyes brightened and his ears pricked up as he recognized the man who'd found him in the woods. He went to nibble at Rowan's hair, but he pushed him away, laughing.

"He's still doing that?"

Freya nodded, and gave her faithful companion a scratch behind the ear. She glanced thoughtfully around the yard.

"This place still looks the same."

"What did you expect? That we were going to plant some flowers and maybe paint some nice pictures on the Wall?"

"Pfft, you can't paint."

Rowan ruffled her hair and grabbed her arm when she went to push him away, pulling her into another hug.

"Who's this you've brought with you?" he asked, when he'd finally released her. Tyrion, having been helped down from his horse by a couple of guardsmen, stood watching the reunion, waiting to be introduced.

"Uncle Rowan, meet Tyrion Lannister," Freya said. Tyrion stepped forward and held out his hand.

"Pleasure."

"Lannister?" said Rowan. He spat on the ground, but shook his hand anyway. Tyrion cast Freya a questioning sideways glance, but she just shook her head.

"Sorry, force of habit," Rowan told him, and Tyrion had to laugh. This wasn't the first time he'd met someone who wasn't fond of the Lannister family, and he was quite certain it wouldn't be the last – if there were two things the Lannister's had plenty of, it was gold and enemies.

"And the young pup?" Rowan asked, nodding to Jon, who had dismounted but now looked utterly lost.

"One of Ned Stark's sons. Jon Snow."

Hearing his name, Jon looked in their direction. Freya ushered him over, and he approached reluctantly.

"Snow, is it? Nothing wrong with that. Can you swing a sword, boy?"

"Yes."

"I can vouch for that," Freya agreed.

"Then welcome to the Night's Watch. I hope you don't mind the cold, 'cause you'll be sharing a room with it for the rest of your life. You've fought my young Freya, here?"

"I have."

"And come off no better for it, I'd bet. And what of you, Lannister?"

Tyrion smirked. "Oh, I make no business of lifting heavy metals."

"Save for the kind that fills your pockets, eh?"

"No argument there."

"Will you both be taking the black?"

Tyrion laughed. "No, no. I'm here simply for the view."

With that, he headed off towards the main hall, where the Lord Commander Mormont had requested his presence upon hearing of his arrival. Jon wandered back over to the horses to help put them away, before he too would make his way before Mormont with the other new boys. Freya and her uncle watched Tyrion disappear into the tall, stone building.

"Are you fucking that dwarf?" Rowan asked, half-joking. He had gotten used to the idea of his niece becoming a grown woman, and though it had taken a while, he had also accepted the fact that this meant she would likely start taking men into her bed.

Freya frowned.

"No. Why?"

"You know what they say about the Lannisters – like a sword made of gold, they're pretty to look at, but in the end they're useless. Though I wouldn't say that one is pretty. What are you doing riding around with him, then?"

"I thought I'd travel with him and visit my uncle. Besides, he's not as bad as those other lions. We've a lot in common, in fact."

Her uncle didn't seem very convinced by this comment, giving an impartial grunt in reply. Then he seemed to remember something and his face grew grim. He began stroking his short beard, as he was apt to do when he was unsure about something.

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news, Freya," he began.

"What?"

"Waymar Royce" – she rolled her eyes as she heard the name of the man she'd been betrothed to – "was sent out on a patrol a few weeks ago. He still hasn't returned. We hear his party might have come under attack." Seeing that his niece was unaffected, he went on, "I know you and the lad weren't exactly close, even if you were promised to one another, but he was fond of you."

"He was fond of what he might find between my legs, but he never did get to find out."

"Enough of that talk," he said gently, "I thought you might at least be concerned."

"What do you think did it? Wildlings?"

Rowan sighed, the tired sigh of a man who'd served too long and seen too much. "We'd like to believe that, because that would make it easier to hunt them down and make sure they never do it again. But there's word it might be worse. White walkers, they say."

"White walkers? Are they sure it's not the grumpkins?"

"This is serious, Freya. A group of us rangers will be heading out in a few days to see what we can turn up."

"You're going out there?" Her expression immediately grew serious.

"Think I can't handle myself?" he teased. He went to ruffle her hair again, but this time she ducked and spun around behind him.

"Still a quick one. That's good. How was Winterfell?"

She made a face and he chuckled. They started walking towards the hall, and Freya turned to call Ferox, but saw that he was gone.

"The boy took him, I think. That Snow boy. So, you were saying?"

"The king decided to make me his personal entertainment. He staged a little fight. Let people challenge me."

"I'm sure you must have hated that," he replied, knowing she had a knack for volunteering for tourneys – it was in her nature to try and prove people wrong, something he'd been forced to endure since she was a child.

"It wasn't the most pleasant of experiences."

"I assume you came out on top, though?"

"Yes, but I felt like a monkey being made to dance for peanuts."

Rowan laughed and then glanced up at the sky. The light was fading fast, and night at the Wall was no easy thing to tolerate, even if you were lucky enough to have a fire burning in your chamber.

"You're welcome to stay in my room, again, like last time," he offered, "Though, since you were a young girl then, you might find you'd be more comfortable in a room of your own this time 'round."

"I think a room of my own would fine, if there's one to be had," she assured him.

"But before we worry about that, we best get some food into you. And then maybe a bath."

Freya pressed her shoulder to her nose and sniffed, then nodded. It was a long journey from Winterfell to the Wall, and without much in the way of bathing options, unless you felt like taking a dip in the freezing water of Long Lake.

"You go ahead. I'm just going to check in on Ferox, make sure he's settled down for the night."

Rowan nodded, then drew his black cloak around him and marched into the hall. As he opened the door, Freya felt the warmth of the fires within, but she turned back into the cold and headed for the stables.

Jon was still inside when she arrived, sorting out the tack.

"I took care of him for you," he said, "Thought you might like some time to catch up with your uncle."

"You have my thanks."

"He took a chunk of my hair, though," Jon went on, putting down the bridle he was holding to gesture to an area of his head.

"He only does that to the people he likes, I swear. Let me take a look."

She stepped closer and lifted his hair, but saw no sign of bleeding. She met his gaze then, and for a moment he didn't look away. Realizing she'd left her hand resting on the side of his head for a little longer than seemed necessary, Freya backed off. Jon continued to stare, not sure what to do, then he picked up the bridle again and hung it on the rack.

"I'll see you inside," she said.

"Yes."

Freya paused in the doorway for a moment, watching him as he worked with that same somber expression he always seemed to have on his face. There was nothing she would have liked better than to have found a way to put a smile on his face, to give him a little bit of happiness before he gave up his life to the Watch; but he was just a boy, and she couldn't bring herself to do that to him when she knew she would be leaving him behind. Better for him to have never felt anything, than to have felt something and then have it taken away from him; it would be less cruel that way.

* * *

That night, as she lay in the comfort of her own soft bed, lucky enough to have a fire burning in her small room, Freya thought of Jory and wondered where he was, if perhaps he was thinking of her, too. She wasn't sure if it was him she missed, exactly, or just the company. She considered getting up to go visit Tyrion, who was likely still awake reading, as he often stayed up into the early hours of the night, but found herself too exhausted to do so.

The warmth of her bath had made her drowsy, and the heat from the fire wasn't helping any. Then she thought of Waymar Royce, with his handsome but arrogant face, the way he spoke as if everything was owed to him. She'd lost friends and lovers before, and though he had been neither, it was still odd to think that he was gone; a part of her own personal history simply erased. She realized that if she had gone through with the marriage, maybe he wouldn't have been made to suffer such a fate, though she would have been made a very unhappy woman if she had.

 _Maybe I'd be a mother by now_ , she thought, chuckling at the idea, _A babe hanging off me, instead of a sword._

The idea seemed absurd. She'd been relieved during the ride up, when she'd finally gotten her moon's blood, having been worried that Jory might have left her with more than just a parting kiss. It had happened once before, on an occasion she didn't like to recall, and with the help of a discreet maester and a cup of moon tea it had been taken care of. Afterwards, she had also taken care of the man who'd gotten her in that state in the first place.

Feeling a nagging ache between her legs, she groaned and rolled over. If only Jory were there now to take care of it for her. She wondered how Tyrion would react if she showed up in his room with nothing more than her cloak wrapped around her body, and she laughed. He'd probably give her one look and then return to his book, maybe with a witty retort like 'Aren't you cold?'

In the end, she reached down to take care of herself, her mind drifting to the moments she'd shared with Jory to give her something to work with. But before she could even start to feel anything, she had fallen asleep, her hand still in her breaches.


	7. Chapter 7: The Wall

**Chapter Seven: The Wall**

"Sleep well?" Tyrion asked when he saw her in the hall the following morning, as the men broke their fast.

"Not really," she replied.

"Was it the cold?"

She shook her head and looked down at her bowl of porridge, spooning the mixture around without much enthusiasm. He passed her a bowl of honey and she took the drizzle stick, dripping a good amount onto her breakfast.

"Where'd you get this?"

"I spoke with someone in the kitchen. They weren't quick to part with it, but I find I can be very persuasive when it comes to dining well."

"And in most other matters."

"We all have our talents. Speaking of which, I heard the new boys are going to be put through their paces by the master-at-arms, something I trust you'll want to be present for."

"Mmhm," Freya agreed, through a mouthful of food. She searched the crowded hall for Jon, and found him sitting alone, away from the others occupying the table, who chatted animatedly. He was looking down at his own breakfast with about as much enthusiasm as she had.

"Still concerned for the boy?" Tyrion asked, as he poured himself a fresh drink.

"I don't think he thought this through. A little late for him to turn back, though, unfortunately."

Lord Commander Mormont joined them then, glancing briefly at Freya, who was sitting in the place of honor only as Tyrion's guest.

"I'd say he's one of the few who volunteered to be here," Tyrion replied, "Would that be right, Commander Mormont?"

"It's a rare thing these days," he agreed, "Most of my men had no choice but to take the black. Their crimes, no matter how small, are what led them here."

"What of the new men, the men we brought with us? What are their supposed crimes?" Tyrion asked.

"Thievery for the most part. One boy was caught stealing a wheel of cheese. His younger sister hadn't eaten for three days."

"His crime was survival?"

"Aye. Many are also charged with the crime of being orphans. Easier for them to be sent here, than for all the high born folk to have to worry about accidentally casting their eyes upon such misfortune."

Freya looked around the room once more, this time seeing the men in a different light. As an orphan herself, she knew how it felt to wander Westeros in search of something, anything. Most had given up and come to make the Night's Watch their family, the only family they would ever have. Everyone became a brother when they took the black, no matter where they'd come from. Maybe Jon had a place here after all.

* * *

The yard was slick with melted snow, mud and puddles forming unsteady ground. Still, Jon managed to gain the upper hand against any man who came at him. As one of the new boys charged at him, swinging their sword about with the grace of an angry ox, Jon struck a blow and knocked the wind out of him. Caught off guard, his opponent failed to block the next attack, allowing Jon to disarm him. Maddened by his quick defeat, the boy continued to come at him, but Jon brought the hilt of his sword up into the boy's nose and sent him to ground. The boy lay in the mud, clutching his broken face as blood spilled into his hands.

Watching from the sidelines, Freya winced and looked up at Tyrion, who watched from the balcony above her. The next boy came at Jon with the same vigor as his brother before him, only to suffer a similar defeat. As the battered and bruised victims of Jon's quick hands staggered away, the master-at-arms clapped mockingly after them.

"Well done, Lord Snow. Quite a show you put on. It's a shame your brothers here weren't lucky enough to be raised in a castle with a master-at-arms to teach them to fight."

It was then he seemed to notice Freya, her sword hanging from her hip as it always was.

"Ladyknight, perhaps you'd like to show these boys how to swing a sword. Unless of course you already have. That would explain their pathetic defeats. What do you say?"

"I'm afraid I don't think that best," she answered.

"Really now? You can't do any worse than they did."

She politely declined a second time, taking his insults in her stride, as she had long learned to do. Even so, Tyrion had seen her hand go to the hilt of her blade, as he'd seen his brother do many times. It was just a reflex, he knew, something swordsmen did to reassure themselves.

"He tried that last time she was here," Rowan said, appearing beside him. "She turned him down then, too. She knows she'll defeat him, but doesn't want to shame him in front of his students."

"Surely he can't lose any more of their respect than he already has," Tyrion replied.

"Liking someone and respecting them isn't the same thing. The boys don't have to like him; he's not there to be liked. He's there to teach them to fight, and no boy wants to be taught by a man defeated at the hands of a woman. No matter how skilled that woman might be."

"Have _you_ ever fought her?" Tyrion wondered.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Rowan laughed. "Men joke about her and make fun of her for what she does, but in the end I think they're scared. Because they know they probably wouldn't stand a chance against her. You know what men are like; if something makes them feel uncertain, they'd sooner hate it than try to understand it."

"That is indeed a concept I am very familiar with. And she certainly is a difficult one to understand."

"She's a child trapped in a dark forest with a pack of wolves at her heels," Rowan said, looking down at his niece with a sadness in his eyes, "Might be that it takes a lion to lead her out of there. I've nothing against you Lannister; just see to it that you look after her. She may have been blessed with a man's skill with the blade, but she's still cursed with weakness of a woman's gentle heart."

 _She did choose me as a travel companion,_ Tyrion thought. _Only a woman with a truly gentle heart could look upon a wretch like me and find something to like that isn't my gold._

He still didn't see how he could protect her, since she was the one with the blade, but when he looked down at her and she smiled back, he realized maybe it wasn't physical protection that she required.

* * *

"I spoke with Commander Mormont, earlier," Tyrion later informed her, once the boys were done for the day, "He's had news from Winterfell, regarding Jon's younger brother."

"The one who fell from the tower? How is he?"

"Bran, yes. He's woken up apparently. He'll never be able to walk again, sadly, but he still has his mind intact. Aside from the fact he can't seem to remember anything from the day of his accident."

Freya thought on this a moment. "You don't sound so sure. What do you think happened?"

Tyrion glanced around the yard, and though it was empty, he quietly replied, "Nothing for certain. All I'll say is that I have my reasons to believe it may not have been an accident."

She nodded, understanding his need for discretion, yet a frown still formed on her brow and he could tell she needed more information than that. _Later_ , he thought, _no need to bother her with any of it now._

"Oh well, shall we take this news to Jon? I take it the Lord Commander hasn't told him anything yet?"

"I don't think he has. And I think the boy might like a bit of good news right now."

* * *

Jon was putting his armor away when the other boys entered the room, their conversation cutting off when they noticed him.

"You broke my nose, Lord Snow," the largest boy said, stepping towards him in a way Jon guessed was supposed to be menacing. He turned and glanced at each of them, weighing up his chances of success should they come at him in such a small space. Still on a high from his victories in the yard, he shrugged them off.

"It's an improvement," he replied.

They grabbed him and threw him back against the armor rack, the large one pressing a knife to his throat.

"How long do you think it will be before someone notices you're gone?" he asked, "Or before the wolves get to you once we've thrown you over the side of the Wall?"

The door creaked open behind them and Tyrion stepped in.

"What do you want, halfman?" the boy with the knife asked. Then they noticed Freya behind him. At the sight of the knife, she flicked her sword loose in its sheath with her thumb, the flash of the steel drawing the boys back from their prey.

"Very distinct faces, all of them, wouldn't you say, Lady Freya?" Tyrion said, looking at them thoughtfully.

"They be will when I'm finished with them," she replied, smiling in such a dark way that they each backed off a step further.

"Just try it," the larger boy said, the falter in his voice betraying his uncertainty. Her face was too calm, he thought, she might not be bluffing.

Freya raised her eyebrows and brought her sword out a little further, stepping towards them, but by then they made the smart choice to back off. They were each only scared little boys, she knew, with no place else to go. She felt a twinge of pity for the lot of them as she pushed her sword back down in its scabbard.

They let Jon be, wandering over to the sword racks to clean their weapons, each keeping their ears and eyes open in the presence of the Imp and the Ladyknight.

"Making new friends?" Freya asked, and he looked down at his feet like scolded child.

"Everybody knew what this place was and no one told me. No one but you two. My father knew and he left me here to rot all the same."

"Grenn's father left him, too, when he was three," Tyrion began, nodding to the large boy, "And Pyp was caught stealing food to feed his starving sister. I don't imagine they much want to be here, either."

While Tyrion spoke, Freya moved to a table nearby stacked with swords. She picked one up and tested the weight. It felt odd, much too heavy for her way of fighting.

"They just hate me because I'm better than they are," Jon said, putting his armor away.

"None of them looked as if they'd even held a sword before," Freya observed, putting the weapon back down with the others, "You've had one in your hand since you were a young boy. Can you blame them for that?"

He glanced over at the boys, who dropped their gazes in an instant, pretending not to listen in.

"It's the same as trueborns judging you for being a bastard, when you can't rightly help it."

They both looked over at each of the boys nearby, Freya searching their faces for any signs of further trouble. She seemed to have gotten her point across the first time around. Satisfied, Tyrion headed for the door before remembering their original reason for the visit.

"Oh, and there's been word from Winterfell. Your brother Bran's woken up."

A smile came upon Jon's face on hearing that, and a relief so pure Freya couldn't help but share his happiness.

"I'll train with you a little later, if you're up for it," she told him, smiling, "You too, boys."

"I won't be taught by a woman," said the shortest of them, a boy called Rast.

"A shame," Freya replied, without missing a beat, "It's likely the last interaction with a woman that you'll have before you're sworn in."

The boy got a sour look on his face as his friends laughed.

"Anyway, the offer's there, so long as Ser Alliser doesn't mind."

Though she didn't really care if he did.

* * *

"What in seven hells was that? Your battle face?"

Grenn came at Freya with his sword pointed forward, but she stepped to the side, quickly avoiding the attack. Though Rast had decided not to take her up on her offer, the other boys hadn't seen the harm in it, and so had met up with Jon in the yard a couple of hours before dinner, in the small block of free time the Night's Watch offered them each day.

Since Jon was the only one with any experience, Freya had arrived without her sword, worried that even in a mock fight she might accidentally end up maiming one of them. The last thing she wanted was to be responsible for the Night's Watch losing even more men. So instead she'd given them the task of trying to hit her with their blunt training swords. Jon had come the closest so far.  
Grenn was too large and clumsy in his movement, and Pyp was caught between focusing his attacks and keeping Freya in his line of sight, since she had the tendency to disappear from view.

"Come on! Don't worry about getting me with your bloody sword. You've got to stop the enemy before you can kill them."

"You'd think killing them would stop them," he wheezed, stopping to double over and catch his breath.

Freya almost said something about the white walkers, but she knew it wasn't her place. Her uncle had told her that in confidence. She sensed someone step up behind her, and ducked, spinning behind them and taking them in a headlock. Jon struggled against her, then elbowed her in the stomach and threw his weight against her, shoulder first, sending her to the ground. She landed with an undignified 'OOF' and stared up at him in surprise. Grenn and Pyp exchanged looks, and Jon, realizing what he had done, looked utterly apologetic, completely missing the point of the exercise.

He offered her his hand and she took it, pulling him to the ground, where she then grabbed his other wrist and pressed his own sword up against his throat.

"Dead," she told him. She laughed and helped him to his feet, glancing over at the other two, who were grinning.

"If someone's coming at you with the intention of killing you, whether it be a man or a woman, you don't stop and think. You knock them in the fucking teeth and get them before they get you."

The boys laughed tired laughs as each fought to catch their breath. She had worked them hard, but maybe she'd done Ser Alliser a favor in that.

"That's the whole concept behind combat," she continued, "It's not a hard one."

They'd learn, she knew, it was only their first day, after all.

"You did well today," she told them, and she didn't just mean for her session, but in their training with Ser Alliser, too. Of course, they hadn't been victorious, but you've got to pick up the sword before you can swing it, so that gave them something, at the very least.

While Grenn and Pyp staggered away, both still catching their breath, their bodies exhausted from the day's work, Jon remained behind.

"Let's say we even things up a bit," she said, picking up Grenn's discarded weapon.

"Haven't you beaten me enough?" Jon asked.

"You tired?"

"No," he lied.

"Good."

They took up their positions, and she fumbled for a better grip on the unfamiliar sword.

"Something I noticed today," she began, dodging his first attack, which she knew was a feint to get her off guard, "You are better than the other boys, but for that reason I couldn't tell if you were giving it your all or not."

He came at her again, realizing she was taking up the defensive, but again she dodged the attack.

"I was giving it the amount it required," he replied.

She smiled; a smart answer.

"I'm going to let you in on a secret, Jon. Something that's kept me alive since I first began traveling Westeros. Never reveal your entire self. You know what men see when they look at me? Something to laugh at, something to poke until it dances for them. You saw the king in Winterfell. Do you think for a second he took me seriously? That show he made me put on for his entertainment. I act the way people expect me to, all the better to catch them by surprise. You never want your enemies to know everything about you, otherwise they know all your weak spots, and they will jab at them until you fall. So what I'm saying is, hold back when you fight the others, just as I did that day in Winterfell."

"You were holding back?" he said, incredulous, "You damn near broke Jory's nose."

She saw a fear grow in his eyes then, as he realized that even if she hadn't been giving her all on that day, she had still beaten him and Robb two-to-one.

"I've been trained in all sorts of fighting methods. I pick the one most suited to the situation and use it to gain victory."

He attacked her again, and this time their swords met, metal ringing off metal, their faces inches apart.

"You find your opponents weakness, and use it to your advantage."

She leaned closer, and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him. He pulled back and broke the stalemate.

"See what I mean?"

He reddened and she laughed.

"Everyone has a weakness, Jon."

"Even you?"

She smiled thoughtfully.

"Yes, even me."

"What is it?"

She laughed again and dropped her sword so she was holding it upside down by the end of the hilt. Holding up her hands in a yield, she passed it to him. He went to take it, but for a moment she held on.

"Now, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

He smiled, one of the few genuine smiles she'd ever seen on him, and she finally let go.

* * *

"How did you go teaching the boys?" Tyrion asked at supper that night, "Are they in love with you yet?"

Freya chuckled and used her crust of bread to mop up the remainder of the gravy from the stew. Tyrion had opted to sup in his room that night, since he'd grown tired of the looks he received from the younger men (though he told Freya it was because it was warmer). He had invited her to join him, though he knew she enjoyed the company of the men.

"If they are, they have a funny way of showing it," she replied.

"Oh, well they're just young boys. Women are strange creatures to them, something to be feared."

"It's not me they should be fearing, if the tales are to be believed."

"Don't tell me you believe all this nonsense about white walkers coming to the Wall."

"Who says it's nonsense?"

He gazed at her. Something in the way she spoke told him she knew more about the topic than she was letting on.

"I'll be going up top a little later, if you'd like to join me," she said, before draining the last of her goblet.

"Tonight seems far colder than usual, so I'm afraid I'd rather stay within the comfort of my fire. Tomorrow, perhaps. I can finally fulfil my lifelong dream of pissing over the edge."

"That ought to keep the white walkers away," Freya commented. She got to her feet and donned her cloak, securing the fox-shaped clasp on the front, and then she pulled on her gloves and headed out.

Outside, it did feel colder than the last few nights. _Winter is coming_ , Freya thought, hugging herself as a biting cold wind blew through. As she approached the side of the Wall, the man operating the winch lift got to his feet, but she waved him off, heading instead for the stairs; the exercise might serve to warm her up.

She was out of breath and pink in the face by the time she reached the top. _I went soft in Winterfell_ , she thought to herself, with a laugh, though really it was the cold that made it hard to breath. A light snow began to fall as she walked along the top, greeting the Night's Watchmen on duty. She stopped at one of the watch posts to take in the view of the land beyond the Wall, or what little she was able to see in the pale moonlight. Then she felt a hand clasp her shoulder and instinctively reached for her dagger.

"Freya!" a familiar voice said, and with a sigh of relief she slid her knife back away and turned around.

"This wind makes it hard to hear anyone approaching," she told her Uncle Rowan, when he looked worried he'd genuinely startled her. She was a little jumpy every now and then, he knew, a result of a life on the road. He'd never asked her the things she'd been through, too afraid of what he might hear. Being sworn to the Wall for the rest of his life, the best he could do was offer his advice and pray that the gods would smile on her.

"I was on my way down to find you," he said, "I'll be leaving on the morrow, heading out with a group of other rangers, like I told you."

She nodded, remembering.

"Hey," he told her, when he caught her downcast expression, "I've made it through a hundred scouts. Why should this one be any different?"

"You told me yourself."

His smile faded and he looked out over the Wall, into the darkness that awaited him, where anything could be lurking on this cold night. He put his hand on her shoulder again and guided her away from the watch post, to walk with him along the snowy allure.

"You know what the last thing your father said to me was?"

"'I'll wager a bet as to which of us dies first'?"

"That too. And he still owes me one hundred gold dragons."

Freya smiled. Her uncle was fond of that joke, though he had loved his brother dearly. She knew her father probably would have laughed at it, too.

"But he grew earnest after that, and right before he rode off he said, 'Watch over Freya for me. Gods know her mother won't'. And for a long time I was at a loss as to just how I was supposed to do that. Then your poor mother died, and I realized it wasn't up to me. Because I could do everything in my power to keep you safe, and it would still never be enough. There's going to eventually come a time when I'll rejoin your father, and collect that debt he owes me, but who's to say when that will be? All I can do in the meantime is assure myself that you'll make wise decisions in everything you do, and the people you choose to keep close to you. Do you understand?"

"Look, if you really want those hundred gold dragons, I'll give them to you."

"Freya."

She smiled and nodded. He had given her the 'everyone dies' speech when she had first shown up at Castle Black as a child, not knowing that she would call upon it to aid her whenever she hesitated before killing a man. She never hesitated anymore. Yet hearing it once more in so many words made her feel like a child all over again.

"I understand, uncle," she replied, and he pulled her into a hug. "Care to double your wager?" she mumbled into his black cloak, but he just chuckled and squeezed her tighter.


	8. Chapter 8: Goodbyes

**Chapter Eight: Goodbyes**

Jon stood at an empty watch post, staring out across the vast expanse of wilderness. The snow continued to fall lightly, flakes settling in his hair amongst the dark curls. He held a ponderous look on his face and for a moment Freya almost didn't want to disturb him. She watched him, wondering what thoughts ran through his mind. Was it home he thought of, back in Winterfell, with his brothers and sisters? Or had he already given them up to move forward with his new chosen life?

He sensed her then, as she approached the small fire behind him to warm her hands. She took off her gloves and for the first time he noticed a scar running along the top of her right hand.

"It's useless," she told him, when she noticed his stare, "Well, practically so, anyway. My horse fell on it during a tourney when I was younger. Not Ferox, of course. This was before him. I can't feel much in the way of it now, but it still has movement for what it's worth. Luckily I favored my left hand when learning to wield a blade. How's it feel? I can't tell."

She took her hands away from the fire and offered her right one to him, flexing it as though still trying to regain sensation after all these years. Jon hesitated and then pulled one of his own gloves off. He took hold of her hand and gave it a couple of gentle squeezes. It was freezing.

"You're probably better off not feeling anything," he told her, as the cold from her skin made him long to put his glove back on again. She withdrew her hand from his grip and gave it shake to see if that made any difference.

"Ah well, it's of little concern to me."

She joined him by the edge and they stared out in silence, the only sound the howling wind. Jon looked over at her and stared a moment with mixed feelings.

"Will you be travelling on to King's Landing with Tyrion?" he asked.

"I will. He's one of the few friends I have, best not be letting him get away. My uncle rides out tomorrow, as I'm sure yours does too. I'd hope to visit him again when he returns…"

She lowered her gaze as she let the thought ring out, and pulled her gloves back on, sticking her hands in her armpits to keep warm. Things seemed to have gotten a lot colder.

"I'll make you a deal, Jon," she said, "If I'm still alive in a year's time, I'll come by for a visit."

He stared at her, and then stuck out his hand. "Assuming I'm still alive, too."

Freya took his hand and shook it, sealing the wretched promise. A year was a long time, and with all that had been going on, it was hard to know just where they would be. She had made similar promises to men she had befriended on the road, in taverns and tourneys, but each time she tried to recover them, she'd find they'd been murdered by bandits, or beheaded by someone's guards; a few had even just gone missing entirely. In the end all men were just meat and bone, walking in Death's shadow; all doomed to the same fate. And Freya's favorite part in all that was the uncertainty of it all – you never knew who was waiting for you behind the next corner; new enemies, new friends, and sometimes new lovers. And always, some new experience.

* * *

The following morning, an hour before dawn, Freya woke to the sound of horses whinnying and left her room for the balcony outside, after donning her leathers, her cloak trimmed with fox fur, and a heavier woolen cloak on top of that.

A handful of rangers were in the yard, a few already mounted, preparing for their journey north of the Wall. Benjen and Rowan stood over by a table, consulting a map that was spread across it. They appeared to be in the middle of a very serious discussion, using their fingertips to trace routes across the parchment. Benjen said something, and Rowan straightened with a stubborn look upon his face. He shook his head at his fellow ranger, and they stared at one another for a moment, waiting to see who would be the first to give in; but both were equally determined. Then a smile broke across Rowan's face and he clapped Benjen on the back, both laughing.

It was then that Rowan noticed his niece leaning against the railing watching them all with mixed emotions. He headed over to her, stopping first to exchange a few words with another ranger. Freya met him at the bottom of the staircase.

"I was hoping to be gone before you woke," he told her.

"I've heard that from men before," she joked, with a half-hearted smile.

He looked around the yard in a way that made Freya think he was saying good-bye to it all, and she felt her heart ache at the thought of never seeing him again.

"Please stay safe," she murmured softly, and he turned to see her distraught expression.

"No promises, my girl. But, look, you'll be in King's Landing next, so at least I'll know where to send word of my return."

Freya nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling that she would never see that raven; one from the Night's Watch, perhaps, but not one from her uncle.

She gave her uncle one last hug, and watched as he mounted his horse and joined the others as they waited in front of the entrance. The big, iron gate was slowly raised, and the riders moved off beneath it, into the cold tunnel that led beneath the Wall. Freya watched her uncle until he had disappeared into the darkness of the other side.

* * *

Not feeling particularly hungry, but also knowing she would never be able to get back to sleep, Freya entered the main hall and found Tyrion and Yoren laughing together and sharing some wine.

"You're up early," Freya said to Tyrion, approaching their table.

"Yoren, here, was just telling me about the time he had to eat bear balls," Tyrion explained, swirling his horn of wine.

"I didn't think you and the Lord Commander were that close," she replied to Yoren, following the joke with a tired yawn.

Tyrion snorted into his cup, choking on his wine.

"You've the same sense of humor as your uncle, I see," Yoren commented, "Has he left yet?"

"Just now."

Yoren nodded and refilled his cup.

"Yoren's decided to join us on the trip back, "Tyrion went on, "He's in need of more men, and I think the dungeons of King's Landing may have just what he's looking for."

"When do we leave?" Freya asked him.

"On the morrow. I thought one more night at the Wall might serve. Besides, I'm yet to fulfil my lifelong dream."

Tyrion finally carried out his wish that night, as he stood on the very edge of the Wall and emptied his bladder into the vast, dark space below. Freya and Jon were over by the small fire, warming their hands, and discussing their uncles' departure. Freya glanced over at Tyrion briefly, realizing this was the second Lannister man to take a piss in her presence, something she really didn't want to make a habit of witnessing.

As Tyrion re-joined them, pulling his gloves back over his hands, he tugged his cloak closer around him. A cold wind was blowing, and it had only just began to snow.

"I guess this is it," Freya said to Jon.

"I'll be sad to see you go," he replied, "Both of you."

In a different life, Freya thought maybe they could have ridden off together, the three of them; exploring all the lands, both Westeros and all the lands across the sea. They would have made for good company, she knew, but she was interested to see how Jon would look after a year's time serving at the Wall. He looked only a boy now, with the softness of youth about his face and a shy innocence in his manner. She would miss him, but with any luck she would be able to make good on their promise, and be back to see him in a year.

"Will you be stopping by Winterfell on your way to King's Landing?" Jon asked them.

"I trust we will," Tyrion replied.

There wasn't really much in the way of accommodation between the Wall and Winterfell, as they had found out firsthand, but the many dwellings that lay between Winterfell and King's Landing, were, for the most part, seedy holes filled with cutthroats and rapers.

"Would you tell Bran that I miss him? That I'll visit him as soon as I can?"

"Of course," Freya assured him.

"Until we meet again, Jon Snow," Tyrion smiled, shaking his hand. He took one last look beyond the Wall, and then headed towards the winch lift, leaving Freya to say her good-bye.

"I don't think Lady Catelyn is going to like seeing me again so soon," Freya said.

"We have that in common, then," Jon smiled. He pulled her into a friendly hug, and she put her hand on the back of his neck, bringing him closer.

"Until next time." She smiled softly and kissed him on the forehead, resting her hand on his shoulder, then went to join Tyrion, looking back to offer one last smile. He stared back at her and watched them go, a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, much like the one he'd had when he'd left Winterfell.

When they were out of sight, Jon turned back to face the wilderness of the north, and the cold that was now his only companion.

* * *

They stopped to make camp before the final leg of their journey the following day, Freya taking the opportunity to hunt some dinner for them whilst Yoren pitched a couple of tents. Had it been just the two of them travelling, Freya would not have minded sharing with Tyrion, knowing him now well enough to trust in his respect for her privacy, but with Yoren in their company, she felt a certain restraint. She knew, even in the eyes of a man from the Night's Watch, that it would seem improper for an unwed pair such as themselves, and she disliked the assumptions he would be inclined to make.

Knowing well that Tyrion was used to far better accommodations on the road, Freya offered to let the men take the two tents whilst she spent the night under the stars, as she had done so many times before. Yoren refused. He argued that the nights were colder in this part of the land and that as a man of the Night's Watch he was used to such temperatures, and besides he would not allow a lady to sleep in the dirt while he had a perfectly good tent for her to use.

In the end, he won out and they agreed that she would sleep inside in exchange for her catching them some dinner. They had carried a decent supply from Castle Black for the long journey ahead, and the salted mutton made a fine meal on the road, but its dry texture made it hard to swallow without a mouthful of water to chase it down. Yoren's rabbit stew on the other hand went down quite well when properly seasoned.

As she skinned her kill for their supper, Tyrion sat at a slight distance, not overly fond of the grizzly procedure.

"You'd be lost on your own out here," Freya commented, cutting a slit along the rabbit's back and yanking the skin and fur away in one sift motion.

"But I would never be on my own. A Lannister always has servants to do these things for them."

Freya and Yoren exchanged the looks of two people who'd served too much hard time on the road to hear that sort of talk from a man.

"Are you saying I'm your servant?" she asked.

"Of course not."

"Well, perhaps under these circumstances you've Freya here or meself to do the tough jobs for you," Yoren began with a touch of jest to his voice, "But what might you do if you found yourself out here on your own, with not a lad nor girl to serve you?"

"Die, I suppose," Tyrion replied, and they shared a laugh.

Once they had warm stew and a bit of bread to fill their bellies for the night, Yoren took leave of them to relieve himself in the woods. Freya stared at the fire as she sat by it, thinking again of Jory as she seemed to do each night before bed. How much she would love for him to be beside her. Or inside her. A small smile crept onto her lips.

"A copper for your thoughts?" Tyrion asked, noticing the look.

"Only a copper? I didn't think a Lannister would know of the existence of such small change."

"Well, we do have to pay our servants their yearly wage."

"I was just thinking."

"I could see that. About anything in particular?"

"Someone I…met. Back in Winterfell. He's not there anymore."

"Jory Cassel, if I'm not mistaken," he replied, then seeing her suspicious look, continued, "I'm afraid subtlety isn't one of your strengths, my lady."

"Who said I was trying to be subtle? It's of no consequence to me if others know who I bed. He's a fine man."

"I suppose the judgement of others is not exactly high on your concerns at this point."

"Never has been, really. A person's opinion tends to tell you more about them than it does about the person they're talking about. The men who jape about who I am and what I do, for example, are often merely making up for their fear that I would defeat them in combat. If a man had nothing to prove, he might also have nothing to say."

"You make a very fine point. So tell me of your plans, then. Do you mean to meet up with Jory in King's Landing?"

"I might. Though with all the women and whores there I'm quite sure he'll have forgotten about me by the time we arrive."

"I highly doubt that. I'm sure he would be quite pleased to have you again."

"Most men are quite pleased to have me for the night, but aren't so pleased to have me in the morning."

"Fools, the lot of them," Tyrion said, and she smiled at the compliment.

"It would take a tough man indeed to rein this one in," Yoren added, rejoining them.

"You mean a tough man to put up with me?"

"Aye, that too. Nothing wrong with a strong-willed woman, though. But it takes the right man to win her heart. Your uncle was concerned when you didn't marry the Royce boy."

"Did you meet the lad?" Freya asked.

"Aye. I'd have been more concerned if you did marry him. The boy was a right twat. All the highborns are when they first arrive at the Wall."

Freya thought of Jon and how he might be fairing among the lowborn boys, his new brothers.

"Snow will be fine," Yoren said, looking at her, sensing her thoughts, "Once he's taken down a few more pegs, he'll fit right in."

"I've been thinking of the younger Stark boy," Tyrion interjected, "The one who fell. Bran, I believe."

"Terrible thing, that," Yoren said.

"Yes, well considering he won't likely walk again, the poor lad seems doomed to a bed or seat for the rest of his life when he should be out climbing trees and throwing rocks and riding horses."

"Climbing's what got him there in the first place."

"Well, perhaps not climbing, then. But all the things boys his age should be doing."

"And what? You've got some sort of miracle cure, 'ave you?" Yoren replied, picking rabbit from his teeth with the point of his dirk.

"Not a cure, no," he replied, getting to his feet. He rummaged through his belongings before extracting a piece of paper from amongst his books. He passed it to Freya, who looked over it a moment. She smiled and passed it on to Yoren.

"What is it?" the grizzled man asked, unable to make sense of the diagrams.

"I may not particularly enjoy riding, but that does not mean I do not see its occasional usefulness. Being as I am," he said, motioning to his short, stumpy legs, "It became obvious that I would gain less use out of a normal saddle than I would your blade. I took it upon myself to design something a little more suitable. I'm sure the young lord will get much use out of it."

* * *

 **A/N: So this is the last of what I had written, so updates may come very slowly. As I've said, I'm posting to get an idea of what interest this story might receive. I have the next chapter partially started, and I would love to continue it. I know I've put that it's a Bronn/OC and Sandor/OC story, and that I've got a little Jory/OC happening to begin with - the Bronn and Sandor stuff comes later.**


	9. Chapter 9: Captives

**Chapter Nine: Captives**

Winterfell was quiet as they rode through the familiar castle gate. Without the loud, jovial voices of knights, freeriders and royals to ring out across the yard, Freya found the cold stone walls less inviting. Upon greeting the acting lord of the castle, they found him to be less friendly still.

"I must say I found our last welcome here to be slightly warmer," Tyrion said to Robb, who sat at the head of the hall looking down on them. Freya stood to the left of Tyrion, and Yoren to his right.

"Any man from the Night's Watch is welcome here," Robb replied, drawing a smirk from Theon Greyjoy, who stood beside him. Maester Luwin, who stood on the steps below the high table, had the good grace to drop his gaze at this, ashamed at the lad's inability to remember his courtesies. Since he had been the one to teach the boys their proper manners, he had hoped for better from them both.

Freya and Tyrion exchanged looks, taking both the 'man' and 'Night's Watch' as jabs at themselves.

"A man of the Night's Watch, but not I, aye boy? And what of Lady Freya here? Is she too not welcome? And here I was hoping you had not taken your defeat at her hands to heart."

Freya stared at the young Stark lord and caught the flicker of humiliation cross his face. It quickly turned to bitterness, as so often happened when it came to her defeated adversaries.

"I'm not your 'boy', Lannister," Robb spat, "And it was widely agreed that the Ladyknight's chosen style of fighting was not honorable."

"Widely agreed? By whom? Those she conquered, I bet."

In an attempt to diffuse the situation, Freya stepped forward, giving a brief nod of respect to the boy. "We received word whilst at Castle Black, of your brother's wakening."

The Stark boy stared at her and nodded slowly, as if trying to deduce her thinking.

"It was good news to hear. For Jon, especially. He sends his regards to all of you. Do you–"

The creak of the door behind them brought the conversation to a halt.

"So it's true," Tyrion spoke to himself.

They watched as the second youngest of the Stark clan was brought in toward the table by the enormous stable boy they knew only as 'Hodor'.

"Hello, Bran," Tyrion greeted, with a smile tainted with curiosity. Continuing to speak, his voice took on a hint of urgency, as if the boy's answer would be of great importance. "Do you remember anything from the day you fell?"

"He remembers nothing," the maester assured him.

Meeting the eldest son's gaze, Freya felt he knew more than they were letting on. She exchanged a look with Tyrion and he glanced up at the older boy, quickly catching on.

"How do you feel, Bran?" Freya asked with a gentle smile.

Theon scoffed at that, and Robb merely maintained his burning gaze.

"How does he feel?" Theon spat, "Are you stupid? How do you think he feels?"

The maester threw Theon a dark look for his rude words, but the boy merely shook it off, as he was wont to do. Bran, however, looked back at her with curiosity. He hadn't been able to watch the king's staged swordplay, having been forced instead to keep the young prince Tommen entertained, but he had heard many stories about it. In particular his brothers' defeat. He glanced at the dwarf. Such an odd pair they made. He wondered why she was traveling with him. Perhaps she was one of the many households sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. He would have to ask his maester.

"Do you like to ride, Bran?" Tyrion asked him.

Freya looked back as she heard Robb's chair drag back across the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said, taking up a defensive stance, eyes glowing protectively while he watched over his broken brother.

One glance at Theon and Freya was appalled to see that, even after everything – after his humiliating defeat at her hands and the teasing he had received from local and visiting men alike – he still looked at her in the same lecherous way as when she had first made her appearance in Winterfell. The thought made her skin crawl. She turned back to the young boy and her companion.

Brann looked downcast. "Yes. Well, I used to."

"The boy has lost the use of his legs," Maester Luwin informed them, as if they hadn't already realized that themselves.

"What of it?" Tyrion asked, "With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple might ride."

Upon hearing the term, tears sprang in to the young boy's eyes, but he made an effort to maintain his lordly composure and replied, "I'm not a cripple."

Tyrion smiled, a small, gentle smile of understanding. "Ah, then I am not a dwarf. My father will be most pleased. Here, I have a gift for you. Freya, if you would be so kind."

Freya took the rolled up parchment from him and handed it to the boy. Bran opened it out and glanced over the diagrams and scribbled notes, but it all meant very little to him. All the same, his eyes seemed to have brightened.

"Will I really be able to ride again?" he asked excitedly, as the maester took the paper from him to look it over. He seemed impressed by the dwarf's design.

"You will," Tyrion assured him, "On horseback, you will be as tall as any of them."

Bran grinned, and the sight of new hope in the poor young boy gave Freya a rush of warmth. Robb watched the whole scene with a skeptical expression.

"Is this some sort of trick?" he asked. "Why do you want to help him?"

The Lannister's were known for many things, but kindness was not one of them.

"I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things," Tyrion replied, with an affectionate glance at his lady companion.

Robb seemed of two minds for a moment, then his expression grew considerably lighter. "You've done my brother a kindness," he said, "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

Tyrion looked to Freya once more and they shared a silent conversation. Had Jory remained in residence there, Freya would have gladly taken Robb up on his offer. But with the sharp, suspicious eyes of the wolf lord still boring into them, not to mention the look she was receiving from Theon – his gaze as slippery as his family sigil – she knew that doing so would be a mistake. They turned back to him.

"No need for false courtesies, Lord Stark," Tyrion assured him, "There's a brothel outside your walls. I'm sure we'll find room there. That way we can all sleep easier."

"You would take the lady in there with you?" Robb asked, a hint of mockery to his voice, glancing at Freya with amusement.

Theon chuckled to himself and said, "You know they provide the women for you?"

"I go where the road takes me," came Freya's simple reply, "A bed is a bed to me."

"So be it," Robb said, "Theon, see them out."

They turned to leave, Yoren back by their side, and Hodor carried Bran up beside his brother, where Maester Luwin was reviewing the sketched plans lain out before them.

* * *

Out in the courtyard, Theon watched them mount their horses, his near-constant smirk plastered on his face.

"Couldn't resist some northern ass? This one not enough for you?" the boy asked Tyrion as Yoren helped him into his saddle.

"She's from the south, you see," Tyrion replied, and the Greyjoy lad was surprised to see Freya chuckle unoffended.

Though Theon had also been joking, he wondered if perhaps these two _were_ fucking, freaks as they both were. Yet the thought sparked a queer rage in him. So she would bed a twisted little monster like the Imp, but flirt with him, a man destined to rule the Iron Islands, only in jest? His jaw tensed and he found himself itching for his sword. He knew, were he to face her a second time, he would not allow himself to fall for her tricks again.

Catching the dark way the boy was eyeing his friend, Tyrion went on, "Might I enquire into the whereabouts of Lady Stark? Why did she not receive us?"

"She wasn't feeling well," Theon answered, tearing his eyes away from Freya. It was an obvious lie. He watched the pair exchange a glance, but Freya looked away, feigning disinterest.

"She's not in Winterfell, is she? Where did she go?"

"You wondering about you lover?" Theon said to Freya to draw her attention back, thus avoiding the Imp's question. He smirked again as she looked back at him, her expression unimpressed. "Jory Cassel. That's right, I heard all about it. The whole castle knew about that. I trust he paid you well?"

"Better they know the truth then think I'd taken to bed with someone embarrassing, like a Greyjoy," Freya replied, with an aloofness that reminded Tyrion greatly of his own brother. Jaime had always carried the ability to insult a man in such a way they were almost unlikely to notice. Unfortunately Freya had not managed to slip this one by Theon, and his face burned an angry red, nostrils flaring as his family pride was met with the verbal slap.

"You'll be wanting to be careful staying at that brothel. They might decide to keep you on."

Freya chuckled as she picked up her helm and lowered it down over her head, pulling open the jaws of the fox-head to speak. "Even if I did, boy, you could not pay me to fuck the likes of you. It's one thing to take a defeated man to bed. Another to take one of a defeated rebellion."

Thrown by the lady's crass language and the sting of her insult, Theon could only watch in silence as they rode off through the castle gates, catching the grin of Tyrion Lannister as they moved.

* * *

As they traveled upon the kingsroad some days later, the skies opened up and let fall heavy lashings of cold rain. They came to an inn just north of the Trident – one that Freya knew well. She had stayed there a number of times on the way to or from one tourney or another. Now, as they reached the establishment and found it overflowing with freeriders, bannermen, knights and mercenaries, she felt struck with a sense of déjà vu. The road on the way up had given them a good indication as to what they could expect at the inns ahead, but still Tyrion would not listen to their suggestions.

Freya raised her helm and watched as he pulled his horse to a halt. Though she preferred to ride without the helm when she could help it, it did prove very useful against the wet weather. "They'll be full up here," she said, "We'd best try the next one, or better yet find shelter in the forest, away from this lot."

Tyrion was soaked through most of his layers now, and his legs were cramping horribly from the long ride. The thought of continuing onwards without rest made his entire body ache. He looked to the black brother beside him, but Yoren seemed to be of the same mind as the lady. Tyrion shook his head at them.

"Yoren, if you would be so kind," the dwarf said, waiting to be helped down from his mount.

Freya dismounted gracefully and looked around at the men scattered outside the inn's walls. A few of the less savory looking types were eyeing the glittering jewels on Tyrion's fingers and her hand went to rest on the hilt of her sword. Though some of the men had the look of honorable knights, others had the crafty, untrustworthy look of sellswords.

"If by chance they do happen to have no rooms to spare, it might be that a Lannister can change their mind," Tyrion said, taking a coin from his pocket and tossing it in the air. He caught it and grinned, but noticed his companions exchanged a concerned glance.

"Best be keepin' that in your pocket. I've seen men kill for less," Yoren advised.

Catching the way Freya surveyed the surrounding men, Tyrion promptly tucked it away. He felt the hot breath of Freya's mount as it nibbled at his golden locks, and he shooed it off.

"I'll tell you what," Freya said, taking Ferox by the reins, "One gold dragon says we'll be back on the road shortly."

Tyrion grinned at that. "You have a bet, my lady."

She turned to Yoren and took his reins too. "I'll see to the horses. The stableboy seems a tad run off his feet. Yoren can go with you and watch me win my money."

"Are you sure, m'lady?" the black brother asked, looking first to their animals then to the ones leering around the inn.

"I am. Ferox is very particular about how he's housed, and who by."

"Ah, so he and I have that in common, then," Tyrion smiled.

Though he felt unsure about leaving her on her own, Tyrion knew that she had lived that way for much of her life. Yet her uncle's words rang on in his head, to protect her any way he could. He supposed procuring them a warm room out of the wet was a start, and so started towards the inn with Yoren close behind.

Freya led the horses first to a trough where they could drink their fill after the long ride, her helm still ajar for a clearer view of her surroundings. She watched a man walk by, avoiding eye contact until he stopped and turned back to approach her. He seemed perplexed as he looked at her, then a smile broke out on his face.

"Ladyknight!" he grinned. She felt herself tense and her hand came up to rest on her sword. Whenever a man addressed her by that name, it was either to mock her, or to threaten her into a duel.

"What brings you out this way?" he continued, "Come to join the Hand's tourney, no doubt?"

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, feeling a vague sense of recognition.

"Walder Frey," he smiled, as if the name meant something to her. She knew of course the Walder Frey that held the Twins, and his many sons who carried the same name, but she was not particularly familiar with any of them. His smile fell away some as he saw she was unable to recall him.

"We fought in the last tourney," he prompted, "I was one of the last to face you before Ser Gregor Clegane."

At the sound of that name she felt her old wound threaten to cramp. She had little memory of that day, likely a side effect of the milk of the poppy the maester had administered. Still it pained her to be reminded of it.

"You fought exceedingly well for a woman," he went on, offering a smile once more, as though he thought he had just given her a compliment, "If you're heading for King's Landing, I should hope to face you again. I've been training, you see and –"

He glanced behind her and his expression changed. He began busying himself with the tourney invitation that he clutched in his hand and hurried away from her. Confused by his odd behavior, Freya turned her head, but her helm was forced closed by unseen hands, and her vision obstructed as a burlap sack was tugged down over her head. She moved to draw her weapon, but her hands were quickly seized and bound in front of her. She thought of all the men she had seen watching her as they'd come to a halt, and a fear came over her as to what they might do when they found out the expensive-looking armor held a woman inside. With a ferocious growl she pulled out of the grip of her captors and managed to head-butt the one closest in the face. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.

"Cease this behavior now, so that I may speak with you," came a sharp voice from in front of her. It sounded so familiar. A woman's voice. She tried to place it, but the owner spoke the answer for her.

"You are being addressed by Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell," she began, in the stern tone Freya had grown so acquainted with, "We have taken the Imp as prisoner, charged with conspiring to murder my son. As his near constant companion during your stay in Winterfell, and since you travel with him even now, I can only assume you played a part in this crime."

Freya began to protest, outraged by the absurd allegations, but the guard she had assaulted, none too happy with his moment of humiliation, gave her a solid whack to the back of her helm. Her head bounced off the back of the thick metal, and for a moment she felt disoriented as the metal rang around her ears.

"We will be taking you back to Winterfell," Catelyn continued, "Where you will be tried for these crimes."

Tyrion's muffled voice joined the fray, "Leave her, she has nothing to do with this."

"Must we gag you, too?" Lady Stark asked with exasperation.

"Help her onto her horse," a new voice ordered, this one male, "It's the white one. Make it quick."

"Ser Rodrick, best take her weapons," Lady Catelyn suggested.

Ser Rodrick Cassel. Jory's uncle. Freya wondered if he knew of their brief relationship. That thought at least gave her some hope. Yet should she somehow find herself freed, she would not think to abandon her friend.

* * *

They made slow progress on their way to Winterfell, but grew thankful at least when the rain stopped. They had been riding for hours when they came to a halt and the captives were helped down from their steeds. Tyrion was most glad for this, as by now his legs were paining him so that he might rather have them cut off. He only hoped Freya was faring better. Just before they had pulled a sack down over his head, he had seen her body tense with rage as she too was taken prisoner. He wondered what might have happened had she been able to draw her blade in time.  
The rush of air as his cover was removed was most refreshing. His face was red and wet with a mixture of rain and sweat, despite the cold. He watched them struggle to remove the sack they had forced down over Freya's helm and made to approach them.

"Stay where you are," came Lady Stark's stern command, her eyes piercing as she looked to him.

"Whatever this is about," he attempted to reason with her, "I can assure you Lady Freya has no part in it. She is innocent."

"I saw the two of you consorting often in Winterfell. How am I to know that she did not play some part in this?"

"Is it a crime to befriend a Lannister?" he asked, "I suppose some might think it so." His words only proved to make her expression more severe. He glanced around and suddenly became aware that they were no longer on the kingsroad, as he had thought. The area around them was hilly and covered in rocks, with sparse growth to be seen. This was certainly not the way to Stark's castle, but he knew it all the same. "You said we were riding for Winterfell."

A sly smile came upon Lady Stark. "I did, often and loudly."

"Clever," he noted. "They'll be out in droves, looking for me in the wrong place. Word's probably gotten to my father by now. He'll be offering a handsome reward. Everyone knows a Lannister always pays his debts." He looked pointedly at the men who had joined them from the inn. One in particular, the man who had unknowingly lost Freya her bet, glanced over at him with interest. Tyrion tested the strength of his binds, but they did not budge.

"Would you be so good as to untie me?" he asked his captors.

"And why would I do that?" Lady Catelyn asked.

"Why not? Am I going to run? The hill tribes would kill me for my boots. Assuming a shadowcat didn't eat me first."

"Shadowcats and hill tribes are the least of your concern."

Tyrion looked around once more. He had traveled on the Eastern Road only once before, when he had joined the party sent to escort Jon Arryn, his wife, Lysa, back to King's Landing. It was a thankless route, and not one he had cared to travel again – at least not by choice.

"Ah. So we're going to The Vale. You're taking me to your sister's to answer for my imagined crimes. Tell me, Lady Stark. When was the last time you saw your sister?"

Her eyes narrowed, but she replied, "Five years ago."

"She's changed," Tyrion informed her, remembering the woman he had often seen in court. As Robert Baratheon's former Hand, her husband Jon Arryn had taken her to live with him in the Red Keep. It was only after his untimely death that she had fled back to their stronghold in the Vale.

"She's always been a bit touched," Tyrion went on, "But now…you might as well kill me here."

He watched Freya lay a comforting hand on the her horse's muzzle. Ferox sniffed at her binds and snorted.

"She has not been harmed," Lady Stark assured Tyrion, catching his concerned gaze.

Unsure if he should trust her words anymore than she trusted his, Tyrion's gaze drifted back across to the men that had followed them from the inn. Yoren had not been touched by the Stark followers, and had ridden of shortly after their capture, continuing on to their intended destination to get word back to Ned Stark and, Tyrion hoped, his brother Jaime. Among the ones who had chosen to join them, apart from the perceptive sellsword, were a couple of Stark bannermen, and much to everyone's dismay, a travelling bard, who had not shut up since they began their journey. What Tyrion wouldn't pay for someone to put an end to the man's awful singing; but then he supposed paying someone to commit murder was what had allegedly gotten him into this mess.

As the man took up singing again, this time an improvised song about Tyrion's current misfortune, Freya looked towards him.

"Will someone shut that man up before I choke him with my binds?"

Tyrion chuckled, expression quickly turning to shock as the bard's instrument exploded into splinters. It took him a moment to register what was happening. War cries sounded from the hills around them, and men appeared carrying crude weapons, dressed in mismatched armor. The hill tribes he had heard so much about. He looked to Lady Stark and saw she was now without her previous confidence. It had been a mistake to come this way.

Swords were drawn all around, the ringing rasp of steel sounding over the cries of the approaching ambush. Freya moved towards the closest man, the sellsword, and held out her bound wrists. "You!" she called to him.

He looked first to her helm, eyes gliding over the odd shape, then down at her hands and cut through the binds with a single, well-placed stroke of his sword. The tribesman had arrived now, and the fighting had begun. Lady Stark cowered beneath a rocky outcrop and Tyrion stood before her, watching the chaos unfold. Looking around, Freya spotted Ser Rodrick by a pile of his and Lady Stark's belongings. She caught the glint of her sword between some furs.

"Ser Rodrick!" she shouted, gesturing for her weapon. He glanced down at the sword, unsure, but as he looked back at the number of invading men, he seemed to change his mind. He reached down and plucked the Valyrian steel from the luggage, tossing it to the rightful owner. In one swift movement Freya caught it, drew it from it's sheath, and blocked the first attack to come at her. The man went high with the intention to bring his blade down on her head, but in turn left his body wide open. Freya shoved her sword up through his belly, spilling his guts to the muddy ground below, warm blood coating her arms. Moving on, she dodged the next two strikes of a man wielding a battleaxe, before cutting off his hand. He screamed as he looked down at the bleeding stump, and Freya silenced him with a quick slash of her blade, sending his head rolling into a ditch. With its exceptionally sharp edge, Valyrian steel cut through bone like butter.

From over by Lady Catelyn, Tyrion watched his friend with awe. It was the first time he had seen her fight in a real combat situation. She moved with such grace, it seemed almost like a dance, with the occasional spray of blood only adding to the beauty of her movements. She appeared such natural with the blade, it almost seemed a part of her own body. He had only ever seen one other person who fought like that; his dear brother, Jaime.

Continuing her onslaught, Freya took up a second sword from one of the dead men, and moved towards the last of the assailants. A particularly large man came at her and she jumped sideward to avoid his attack, slashing at the back of his knees. He came down with a heavy thud, kneeling before her, and she rested her crossed swords on either side of his neck. Catching sight of this, Lady Stark looked away. Tyrion wanted to do the same, knowing what came next, but he was so enraptured by this side of the lady that he could not bring himself to do so. With one quick motion, Freya cut off the tribesman's head and caught the ensuing fountain of blood across her helm and chestplate. The body tumbled forward and she stepped over it, looking for more foes to fell.

It appeared as though there were no more coming, when one suddenly approached from the side of the outcrop sheltering Lady Stark. She cried out for Ser Rodrik to come to her aid, but the old knight was still engaged with another. Freya looked over, catching Tyrion's sudden panic, and began moving towards them, only to be knocked into by a fleeing attacker. Quick as she could, she raised her borrowed sword and flung it at the man's back, catching him through the chest. He gave a gargled cry and fell forward. A heavy thud drew her attention back to Tyrion and Lady Stark. She watched impressed, as Tyrion beat their attacker's head in with a wooden shield. The improvised weapon fell from his hands as he stared down at the first man he'd ever killed, breathing heavily from the effort. The air stank of blood and sweat; the smell of a well-fought battle.

"That your first?" the sellsword asked him, sheathing his bloodied weapon. Tyrion nodded, still too stunned to speak. It had all happened so fast. "You need a woman," the man went on, "Nothing like a woman after a fight."

Tyrion looked over to his fox-helmed friend as she approached.

"What do you say, Freya?"

"Sod off," she replied, laughing at him before kicking aside a severed head.

The sellsword stared, momentarily confused. He had watched the Stark woman order the capture of who he had assumed to be a man – the armor giving nothing away. They were no knight, perhaps, but certainly one of the Lannister's own guards. He watched as they took off their helm, freeing long, golden locks. Tyrion caught the brief flicker of surprise that crossed the sellsword's face and he smiled to himself. He was really starting to enjoy the dumbfounded looks she drew from skeptical men.

"Tell me someone killed that bloody bard," she went on, grateful for the rush of air across her skin, "If not, I'll try my best to pin it on a tribesman."

Tyrion chuckled and the corner of the sellsword's mouth turned up in an appreciative smirk. Tyrion watched Freya give the man a measuring glance before she sheathed her reclaimed weapon.

"You fight well," the sellsword told her, and for a moment she tensed, waiting for the usual 'for a woman', but when it did not come and a glance at his eyes told her he was being genuine, she smiled and gave a polite nod.

"You're not so bad yourself," she returned.

They looked back to Lady Catelyn, who was still shaking from her ordeal. Beside her, Ser Rodrik was asking questions to ascertain her current state, unconcerned by the blood dripping from the wound on his own shoulder.

"Are you certain you wish to continue?" Tyrion asked her, and they both looked over to him with steadfast expressions.

"Of course. Your actions here do not absolve you of your crimes!" Lady Stark replied.

"I am not a murderer!" Tyrion roared at her, before glancing down at the dead man by his feet. "Well, except for him. But I had nothing to do with the attempt on your son's life."

Freya furrowed her brow as she finally understood what it was they were being accused of. _I have my reasons to believe it may not have been an accident_ , she remembered Tyrion saying. She tried to recall the day of Bran's fall, when she had watched the men carry his broken body away from the tower. She had left Tyrion to sleep in the godswood. He could not have pushed the boy. He _would_ not have pushed the boy.

"I can vouch for his whereabouts," Freya began, and Lady Stark pursed her lips, glancing between the woman and the Imp as she reached her own assumption. Freya caught the expression and pressed on, "I saw him asleep in the godswood not long before the accident occurred."

"Accident?" Catelyn scoffed, "Have you not been listening? This was no accident. And the fall is not of what I speak. A man was sent in the night to open my son's throat as he lay unconscious in his bed. A man armed with this one's dagger." She thrust her finger towards Tyrion, eyes glowing with fury as she remembered the night all too clearly. Her fingers still bore the marks the attacker's blade had left as she had fought him off. She was still unable to fully bend them.

"What sort of imbecile would arm an assassin with his own blade?" Tyrion argued.

Lady Catelyn straightened and glanced to Ser Rodrik.

"Should I gag him?" the old master-at-arms asked.

Tyrion sighed. "Why? Am I starting to make sense?"

From the corner of his eye, Ser Rodrik saw Freya's hand go to the hilt of her sword. With most of their men dead, there was nothing to stop her from attacking him and Lady Stark, and escorting the Imp back to King's Landing. He knew he was no longer able to fight as he had in his youth. He had grown fat and slow and old. He had seen Lady Freya fight both the day she had dueled for the king's entertainment, and now as she cut through the seasoned tribesmen with ease, and though he would never admit it, he thought it possible for her to gain the upper hand if she tried. He had heard men around the castle speak rumors about her and his nephew. If it came to a fight, he could only hope that out of respect for Jory, she might leave them alive.

"Perhaps we best be taking back their weapons," he suggested, but Freya merely scoffed at the idea. There had been a rage brewing within her since she had been taken prisoner, and the short battle had only helped to feed it. The polite young woman they had met in Winterfell now spoke with a tongue as sharp as her blade.

"You could try," she said, with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

He glanced back at the man she had decapitated and suddenly thought better of it.

"Although I would like nothing more than to take my friend here and continue on our intended path," she went on, "There remains the matter of clearing our names. And since you do not believe either of us, we'll humor you and carry on to the Eyrie, and do whatever needs to be done. That is assuming that we are not intercepted by Lannister soldiers first. It shan't be long before word reaches King's Landing. And the queen."

Ser Rodrik glanced at his lady, but Catelyn appeared unmoved by Freya's words.

"And who, Lady Bainhart, will be coming for you?"

She watched the smile fall away from Freya's face as the young woman was reminded of her long-departed family members. For a moment, Freya felt very alone.

"Lady Freya is under my protection, as I am under hers," Tyrion informed Lady Stark, despite feeling absurd for suggesting he was capable of fulfilling such a role, "Therefore, should we be met by any of my family guard, I can assure you she will coming with me. I owe her a great many debts. And you know what they say about us Lannister's."

Freya smiled warmly at him then, and gave a whistle for her horse. Ferox's coat was splattered with blood from the battle – a spray of red against snow. Upon hearing his master's command, he trotted over and Freya swung up into the saddle. She looked out to the direction of the Eyrie.

"Alright. Let's get this over with, shall we?"


	10. Chapter 10: Caged

**Chapter 10: Caged**

"You know, they say the Eyrie's impregnable."

Now free of their binds and their burlap sacks, Freya and Tyrion rode comfortably side by side up the narrow path towards the home of Lady Arryn. The Eyrie was visible off in the distance, an enormous multi-leveled structure that overlooked a deep surrounding valley.

"Give me ten good men and some climbing spikes, I'll impregnate the bitch," came the sellsword's response.

Freya glanced over at him as he rode on Tyrion's right. In his ragged cloak and leathers, the man looked the part of a sellsword, but beneath the dirt, sweat and blood, he was surprisingly handsome. Though his hair was greasy from a long time on the road, and he carried the smell of a man well-acquainted with death, he was quick to smile – a crooked, charming smile – and his eyes had a mischievous glint to them that Freya found appealing. Her mind drifted to Jory as they rode and she found herself questioning her intentions with him once again.

"A copper for you thoughts?" Tyrion asked her, and she glanced back up.

"Only a copper?" she replied, "What happened to the gold you owe me?"

"I'm afraid our friend–" Tyrion looked to the sellsword for a name.

"Bronn," he told him.

"Bronn. Yes. I'm afraid our friend, Bronn here, has it. So kind as he was to offer his room."

"Not that you needed it," Bronn commented, having watched as the short lord was taken prisoner only moments later.

"I believe the bet was that we would be back on the road," Freya said, smirking to herself, "I never said anything about you finding a room."

"She's got you there," said Bronn, and Tyrion chuckled.

The smile fell away from Freya's face, replaced by a look of concern as hoofbeats thundered towards them. The two Stark bannermen leading the group pulled their horses to a halt as the knights of the Vale approached. Freya immediately recognized the man at the front as a knight she had defeated at the king's last tourney. Unlike the young Walder Frey, this man had a face she could not easily forget. Yet even with his good looks, he was always devoid of any humor, unless it was to mock someone. He looked at her with his cold eyes and bitter recognition crossed his face. He glanced to the Lannister sitting beside her, then turned to greet their captor.

"You're far from home, Lady Stark."

"To whom do I speak?" she questioned him politely.

"Ser Vardis Egen, Knight of the Vale. Is Lady Arryn expecting your visit?"

As the two conversed, Tyrion leaned over in his saddle and said to Freya in a low voice, "Tell me, how is it you know this one?"

He said 'this one' as though she seemed to have some connection with every man they crossed paths with. It was true in this case, at least. She had traveled all over Westeros, stayed in many holds and fought in many tourneys. She was bound to run into someone she knew eventually.

"Were you present at the king's last tourney?" she asked.

"Ah," is all he replied, knowing the answer already. They both looked over at Lady Catelyn as they heard their names spoken.

"They are my prisoners," Lady Catelyn was explaining to the skeptical knight, who was observing their free hands and the weapon on Freya's hip.

"They don't look like prisoners."

"My sister will decide what they look like."

Hearing her terse tone, the knight gave a nod. "Aye, my lady. That she will." At that, he and his men turned their horses and kicked them into a gallop, leading the way to the Eyrie and to Lady Arryn's justice.

* * *

Standing before Lady Catelyn's sister, Freya kept her gaze fixed on the woman's face and tried her best to ignore the seven year-old boy who suckled at her exposed teat. With her sister, her sister's prisoners and the knights of the Vale all present, Lysa Arryn still managed to maintain an air of composed dignity. She had none of her sister's beauty, save for the vibrant red hair of the Tullys, and what harshness Catelyn managed to get across with her voice, Lysa managed to do with her face alone.

"You bring him here without my permission? You pollute my home with his presence!" she now spat at her older sister. The boy parted from her nipple and looked down at them with small, watery eyes. He was a sickly looking child, yet destined to rule the Eyrie now that his father had passed on. Staring up at both of them, Tyrion found it hard to bear that his fate might rest in the hands of a madwoman and an invalid.

"Is that the bad man?" the young boy now asked his mother, and she nodded. "He's little."

"He is Tyrion the Imp of house Lannister. He killed your father. He murdered the Hand of the king!"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "Oh, did I do that too? I've been a very busy man."

Lady Arryn's face grew dark with rage. "Bite your tongue, or I will have it cut out. Now who is this, this _woman_?" She spoke the word as if she wasn't quite sure it was the correct descriptor. Dressed still in her armor, Freya remained silent.

"She is Lady Freya of house Bainhart," Catelyn explained, "I have reason to believe she too conspired with Lord Tyrion-"

"I've never seen her before. I never saw her at King's Landing."

"Perhaps not conspiring in regards to your late husband's murder, but-"

"Then why did you bring her here?" Lysa asked, her voice growing shrill. She did not like strangers in her home, let alone ones known to be dangerous. She knew her knights would stand between her and any threat, but still she did not like the thought of her beloved son being in the same room as these murderers. "It is only the Imp I care to see punished, this woman means nothing to me."

"If any harm comes to me, my brother Jaime will see to it that I am swiftly avenged," Tyrion promised, and her eyes narrowed at the threat.

"You can't hurt us! No one can hurt us here!" the young said suddenly, jumping to his feet and thrusting his finger towards them.

Freya was deeply regretting her decision to come here. She risked a glance at Tyrion, but he was still entranced by the vile pair sat atop the Eyrie's pale weirwood throne. Lysa took her young boy in her arms and soothed him, assuring him no harm would come to them.

"I want to see the bad man fly," the boy told her, and a cruel smile came over her.

"Perhaps you will, my sweet."

Disturbed by the entire proceedings, Freya looked back to Lady Catelyn, who now seemed the saner option to appeal to. It was a concern to see that even she was taken aback by her sister's behavior.

"These are my prisoners," she now said defensively, "I will not have them harmed."

Lysa glanced from the armored woman to the Imp beside her and appeared to grow bored. "Ser Vardis," she ordered, "Take my sister's guests down below so that they may rest. Introduce them to Mord." She smiled at this, picturing the oafish guard's reaction to such a tiny prisoner. "But first, remove Lady Bainhart's armor and weapons. She will not be needing them."

Though she wore a grey padded gambeson and black trousers beneath her armor, Freya couldn't help but feel violated as she smacked away the knight's hands and proceeded to undo each of the clasps in front of the entire court. Dropping the breastplate to the ground, she looked up at Lady Arryn and caught her cruel smile once more. A couple of servants were sent forward to collect the discarded armor and take it away to store until the prisoners were tried. Ser Vardis stepped towards her once more and took hold of her shoulder, steering her towards the sky cells. His metal-plated fingers bit into her arm, and as she caught the smug look on his face, she thought about taking his sword. Glancing at Tyrion who walked beside her, she reconsidered. She doubted she could make it out without at least one of them getting hurt or killed. They passed Bronn, who leaned casually against one of the walls towards the back of the court. Their eyes met briefly.

"And be sure to put them in separate cells, ser," Lady Arryn called after them, humor in her voice, "I won't have them 'conspiring' any more under my roof."

Bronn heard the knight chuckle and watched him give Freya a shove. For a moment Freya clenched her fist, but she knew when to pick her fights and unarmed against an armored knight was not the time.

* * *

The world opened out below her. It was windy this high up; cold and windy. She judged the direction it was blowing and sat on the furthermost side of the cell to avoid its chill. She had read about these fabled sky cells, that men had been driven mad in them. It was a choice, she had heard, to either sleep and risk rolling out over the edge, or stay awake and be driven mad by the temptation of the gaping exit. Men had even tried to climb down to escape. Risking a look out over the edge, she felt her stomach flip. She had never been one for heights. She could only imagine what Tyrion must have been feeling. She looked around the cell and spotted scratches beside the door where some poor soul had begged to be let out. She shivered and let her head fall back against the hard stone wall. She had been cornered many times in her life, but this was the first time she truly felt caged. Staring out across the sweeping mountain lands of the Vale, she told herself that, one way or another, she would get out of here.

* * *

It was a couple of days before the jailer came to collect her and bring her back to court. He backed off a little as she approached. He had tried to assault her a number of times since he had thrown her into the cell – first when he had shoved her against the wall and made to grope her, and then again after dark, when he had thought to try and force himself on her. She had broken his nose and twisted him arm behind his back before warning him against trying again, lest she throw him over the edge of the cell. He had not visited again after that. She looked at him now, observing the ugly purple bruising around his nose, and was pleased to see him flinch.

"What's this about?" she asked him, but he merely shook his head and gestured for her to walk.

When they came to Eyrie's throne room, she saw Tyrion stood before Lady Arryn, Lady Catelyn and the young boy, with an audience of knights, ladies and lords. Lysa looked most eager to hear what Tyrion had to say. Coming to a halt by his side, Freya felt much the same.

"So," Lady Arryn smiled, "You wish to confess your crimes?"

"Yes, my lady, I do," Tyrion replied, drawing a startled look from Freya. He met her gaze with a reassuring nod and she sighed, praying he knew what he was doing.

Lady Arryn looked to her sister, satisfied that her sky cells had worked their magic on these prisoners of hers, then turned back to the dwarf. "Speak, Imp. Meet your gods as an honest man."

Tyrion gave huff. "Where do I begin, my lords and ladies? I'm a vile man, I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting. I have lied and cheated, gambled and whored. I'm not particularly good at violence, but I'm good at convincing others to do violence for me." He looked up at Freya with this, and gave her a wink. She looked back up at Lady Arryn, watching to read the woman's expression.

"You want specifics, I suppose. When I was seven, I saw a servant girl bathing in the river. I stole her robe. She was forced to return to the castle naked and in tears. If I close my eyes, I can still see her tits bouncing." He did just that and Freya pressed her lips together to keep from smiling as a murmur went up from the surrounding members of court. From his spot at the back of the room, rested casually against the wall once more, Bronn smirked.

Tyrion opened his eyes, expression wistful as he continued to speak of his childhood wrongdoings. "When I was ten, I stuffed my uncle's boots with goatshit. When confronted with my crime, I blamed a squire. Poor boy was flogged and I escaped justice. When I was twelve, I milked my eel into a pot of turtle stew." A choked laugh escaped Freya's mouth and tried to cover it with a cough, but as Tyrion went on describing his vile act in more and more creative ways, she soon found herself shaking with contained laughter. "I flogged the one-eyed snake. I skinned my sausage. I made the bald man cry," he gestured rudely with his hand, chains rattling on his wrist, "Into the turtle stew, which I do believe my sister ate, at least I hope she did. I once brought a jackass and a honeycomb into a brothel..."

"Enough!" Lady Arryn was red-faced and furious at his vulgar words. "What do you think you are doing?"

Tyrion opened his hands in innocent confusion. "Confessing my crimes."

Freya heard Lady Catelyn scoff at this and she looked up at her. "Lord Tyrion, you are accused of hiring a man to slay my son, Bran, in his bed, as well as conspiring to murder my sister's husband, Jon Arryn, Hand of the King."

"Oh," Tyrion said, as if this was news to him, "I'm very sorry. I don't know anything about all that."

Lady Arryn's nostrils flared and she exchanged an irritated look with her sister. Catelyn, the cooler head of the two, merely looked disappointed.

"You've had your little joke," Lysa spat at them, "I hope you enjoyed it. Mord!"

The guard came forward but took a step back as Freya turned on him.

Desperate to never see the inside of the sky cells again, Tyrion thought on his feet. "Is this how justice is done in the Vale?" he asked, turning to address the members of the court, "You accuse us of crimes, we deny them, so you throw us into cells to freeze and starve? Where is the King's justice? If we are accused, then I demand a trial!"

He exchanged another look with his friend but found she didn't share his notion. Not since the ones to be trying them had already proven to be cruel and unforgiving, much like the land they governed.

"If you're tried and found guilty, then by the king's own laws you will pay with your life," Lady Arryn informed him with a smug smile. "My son will listen to whatever you have to say and then you will hear his judgement. Open the Moon Door!"

There was a steady thrum of a wheel turning as the circular door in the middle of the court floor began to slide open. Wind gusted out of the yawning hole, blowing Freya's hair back from her face and snuffing out a number of the candles that decorated the room. They both stepped forward to look through it and, finding it much like the view of the sky cells, they thought better of getting too close.

"We have no executioner in the Eyrie," Lady Arryn explained, "Life is much more elegant here."

Recalling the scene upon their initial arrival, the suckling boy and the lady's exposed breast, Freya contested this opinion but bit her tongue to keep from getting them into any further trouble. Knowing how things would go if they allowed an excitable child to determine their fates, Tyrion reconsidered their options. An idea struck him, and he could only hope that Freya approved.

"I demand trial by combat."

A smile spread across Freya's face. Catching this reaction, Lady Arryn appeared to lose some of her confidence, but she had no power to deny it. So be it, let the murderous little Imp get himself killed. All the better for her if he were. Much to her pleasure, men from all around the court began volunteering to be her champion and fight for the honor of the Vale, but she spotted one knight in particular who was yet to speak his piece.

"Ser Vardis, you're quiet. Don't you wish to avenge my husband?"

The handsome knight looked over at the dwarf and then at the woman who had bested him once before.

"With all my heart, my lady." He came forward and knelt before the weirwood throne, looking the part of the gallant knight, but Freya knew better than to fall for his false chivalry. "The Imp is half my size. It would be shameful to slaughter such a man and call it justice."

"Indeed," Tyrion agreed, "Which is why I demand a champion to fight on my behalf."

"I will gladly fight the Imp's champion, for you," Ser Vardis smiled at Lysa, getting back to his feet. His smile fell as he heard the volunteer.

"I will fight for Lord Tyrion, and for myself," Freya announced, "I will be his champion."

Tyrion grinned, having hoped she would say so, but Lysa's eyes narrowed. Beside her, Catelyn considered the odds of the Ladyknight actually winning. She had bested her eldest son as well as Ned's bastard, and the way she had taken on the hill tribesmen had been ferocious to say the least. She was not overly convinced that things would turn out in their favor, but her sister, who had never seen this woman before, thought her just as incapable with a blade as any other woman might be.

"So be it," Lady Arryn accepted.

"I will not fight a woman, my lady," Ser Vardis declared, "There is no honor in it."

"I notice you said 'fight', not 'kill'," Tyrion said to him, sensing the man's cowardice.

"I would not kill this woman, either," the knight retorted.

"No," Tyrion smiled, "I would think not."

The knight turned back to his lady and went on, "My squire would gladly fight her. He could use the practice."

A boy of barely seventeen stepped forward in loose-fitting mail, looking eager for the combat. He had killed before, but never a woman. She would be his first, he thought. It did not seem right to him to do so, but in the end that was for the gods to decide.

Upon seeing the young lad, Freya felt all humor fall away. He was tall and thin, with red spots scattered across his chin and the first wisps of hair above his lips. Her mind went to Jon on the Wall and she felt anger rise that Ser Vardis would volunteer a mere boy to take his place. No honor, indeed.

"Ser Vardis, would be so kind as to fetch my sword?"

The knight looked up at his lady on the throne and Lysa gave a nod. He threw Freya a dark look and went to do as his was bid.

"Do you require your armor, too?" Lady Arryn asked with amusement in her voice, making it clear she was not taking this in any way seriously.

"No, my lady," Freya replied, looking the boy up and down as she counted his many weak points, "I will fight as I stand."

Ser Varden returned with the requested item and passed it to its owner. She took a moment to look it over to ensure it had not been tampered with, then turned to face her opponent. She drew the Valyrian blade, passing the sheath back to Tyrion, then took up her position to fight.

It was over in seconds.

Overeager, the squire came at her fast and much too hard, and she parried his first few strikes, if only to prolong his life. Tyrion watched her knock aside a particularly fierce strike and heard her apologize to the youth before sticking her sword through his throat. His body shook and he looked down at the blade, watching his blood run down the rippled steel and onto his killer's bare hands. He looked up to meet her gaze a final time, then his eyes rolled back in his head. Freya let him fall back through the Moon Door and stood still and silent for a moment. Up by her sister's throne, Lady Catelyn shut her eyes and said a prayer to the Stranger for the boy's soul, thinking of her Robb back in Winterfell.

The amusement had left Lysa Arryn's face as she realized the odds were no longer in her favor.

"You murdered him! Only a boy and you killed him!" she said, voice verging on hysterical.

Freya looked down at her red-stained hands and clenched her fists. "His blood is as much on your hands as it is on mine." She turned to the knight who had paled upon watching his squire die, "Now I'll have you, and we'll be on our way."

"No!" Lady Arryn's refusal echoed off the walls of the marble chamber. The members of court were silent as she made her decree. "I will not have any more of this, this _blasphemy_ in my court. I will not watch the gods defiled before my very eyes. You will not fight for the Imp."

"It is my right to choose my own champion," Tyrion argued, but she would not hear it.

"It is tradition for the chosen champion to be male. I will not break tradition." Lysa smiled sweetly, lowering her voice, and Tyrion knew this particular fight was lost. He passed Freya her scabbard and she sheathed her blade once more, feeling defeated in spite of her win.

"If it is a male champion you require of me, then I choose my brother, Ser Jaime Lannister," Tyrion grinned. Ser Vardis looked quickly to the lady of the court, but she gave him a comforting smile.

"He is hundreds of miles away in Kings Landing," she told the Imp.

"Send a raven for him. I'm happy to wait, as I'm sure Lady Freya is, now that she is a free woman."

But the cruel woman merely shook her head. "The trial will be today."

Tyrion sighed, exchanging a quick look with his companion. She was taking note of those that surrounded them, considering her odds should she have to fight their way out of there.

"Any volunteers?" Tyrion said, turning to address the members of the court, only to be met by laughter. His face felt hot under their mocking stares. He should have been used to this by now, the laughter and the ridicule; he had, after all, endured it since birth. But it never failed to send a spike of rage through his heart. Glancing at Freya, he realized she was calculating their escape, but the look of uncertainty growing on her face did little to comfort him.

"Anyone?" he asked again, praying that someone would find it in themselves to take pity upon his wretched face. But the knights all turned away; they were loyal to their lady and her son. They were not about to win this little monster his freedom.

He turned back to Lady Arryn, whom he had never seen look happier than she did at that moment. "I think we can assume that no one is willing–" she began, but a voice came from towards the back of the room.

"I'll stand for the dwarf."

Soft gasps sounded from the more dramatic women of the court, while most others turned to see who had spoken, whispers echoing off the chamber walls.

Bronn stepped forward, striding towards the pair like a shadowcat. Tyrion and Freya turned to him with matching smiles and he shrugged, as though he had nothing better to do with his time.

Looking to Ser Vardis, Freya watched the armored knight look the sellsword up and down, unimpressed. Bronn stepped up to him, drawing his sword, and Ser Vardis raised his shield, readying himself.

This fight proved to be longer than the first, though Bronn was just as quick as Freya had been. He dodged the first few attacks, parrying a few more, before jumping backward away from the knight. Tyrion was reminded of Freya's chosen style of combat back in the courtyard in Winterfell, and just as he had heard back then, the people looking on began to protest the sellsword's evasion. Vaulting over the staircase wall, Bronn turned back to face the approaching knight, kicking over a tall stand of candles to create a little more distance between himself and the armored man. Wax splattered across the floor.

They continued this dance for a little longer until Vardis appeared to grow tired of it, attacking Bronn in a vicious flurry until he had him backed against the edge of the Moon Door. Freya's breath caught in her throat, and she felt Tyrion take hold of her sleeve in suspense, his fate literally hanging by a thread.

Bronn took one look over his shoulder, down into the gaping void below and decided it best to bring this game to an end. He gave a great shove and his opponent flew back. They took up the dance of swords one more, making their way into the crowd of onlookers. Bronn took hold of a stray knight and threw him into the path of his opponent, who stumbled back awkwardly. Infuriated by the moment of embarrassment Ser Vardis took another violent swing at him. This time Bronn ducked, slicing him under the arm. Blood bloomed from beneath the armor, and Vardis glanced up at Lady Arryn in surprise.

"Yes!" Tyrion grinned. He released Freya from his nervous grip.

Shaken by the blow, Lady Arryn called out, "Enough, Ser Vardis! Finish him!"

But the knight was already pale from blood loss. He gave a brave, reluctant nod and turned to face Bronn, but Freya caught the look in his eyes; the look of a man who knew he was about to die.

He swung, but the new wound slowed him. Bronn dodged the attack, and pushed the knight's shield to the side, running his sword up the man's back. Ser Vardis fell to his knees with a cry of pain. Freya gave Tyrion a congratulatory pat on the back and he grinned up at her. Turning his attention to the two women by the throne, he was even more pleased to see their speechless faces. The gods had not favored them today.

Bronn allowed the knight a moment to stand, waiting for him to make his final attack, then tripped him up. Cries went up around the room as the sellsword moved in for the killing blow. In a final attempt to spare his own life, Vardis took a swing, but Bronn caught him by the wrist. More cries sounded from the onlookers. They all knew what was coming next. The sellsword glanced up at the lady of the Vale, quite enjoying her growing look of horror, then thrust his sword down through the knight's neck. A mix of screams and groans accompanied the crunch of severed ligament and bone. Bronn withdrew his bloodied sword and dropped Ser Vardis through the Moon Door, then turned to look at the man he was fighting for.

Tyrion gave a grateful nod, unable to suppress his grin. Glancing then to the woman beside him, Bronn caught Freya staring down at the Moon Door with a thoughtful little smile on her lips. Her eyes suddenly flicked up to meet his and her smile widened. She wondered if he was experiencing that need for a woman now, as he had once suggested. He had certainly put on an impressive show.

"You don't fight with honor!"

Tearing his away eyes from the curious young lady, he turned to face Lady Arryn, considering her words.

"No, but he did," he replied, motioning to his felled opponent's final resting place, through the Moon Doors. Lady Arryn scowled back at him, but there was nothing she could do; by law, the two prisoners were free to go. Beside her, Lady Catelyn whispered a prayer for the knight's life. She had brought this upon the two men; they had given their lives for her hopeless cause.

Bronn turned his back on the throne and approached Freya, who stood watching as Tyrion had his irons removed by Mord. The jailer threw her a couple of nervous glances as he worked.

"Once you're done there, be a good man and fetch my armor," she ordered, one hand on her hip, the other clutching her blade. He nodded quickly.

Hearing a chuckle behind her, Freya turned to greet the victorious champion.

"Enjoy that, did you?" he asked her. She smirked.

"Oh, I'm sure Tyrion enjoyed it all the more, what with his head riding on the outcome."

"Indeed I did," the little man agreed, rubbing at his wrists, now free of the heavy shackles. "But what I will enjoy even more so is turning my back on this whole damned place and everybody in it!"

While Freya redressed in her copper-colored armor, declining Bronn's offers to lend a hand whilst doing so, trying her best to ignore the playful smirk on his lips, Tyrion collected his pouch of gold from a displeased-looking Ser Rodrik. Tossing the gold to the surprised jailer on the way out, Tyrion hummed happily to himself; lucky to live another day. They collected Ferox from the stables on the way down, ignoring the startled look on the stable boy's face, and started the long journey towards King's Landing.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thanks to mpower045, Krutchins, Holly, Jamylla, PsychoxLuv and guest (sorry, couldn't see a name there!) for your likes and reviews. I'm really happy with how the story is going so far, and your kind words help to motivate me. Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I look forward to hearing from you xx


	11. Chapter 11: Savages

**Chapter Eleven: Savages**

The road through the Mountains of the Moon proved just as coarse and twisted as the Vale's lady ruler. Thick woodlands surrounded them on either side, though the risk of this providing cover for any potential surprise attacks from the tribesmen seemed only to have Freya and the sellsword on edge. Tyrion carried on his way whistling a merry tune, still elated from the sudden turn of events that had won him his life. Behind him, Freya and Bronn exchanged looks.

"Will you shut up? There's hill tribes all around here. Keep that up and you'll bring the whole lot down on us."

Tyrion turned to look back at the sellsword. "If I'm going to die, let it be with a song in my heart."

"Or a rusty sword," Freya countered.

Tyrion smiled. "Why should I be worried? After the display both of you put on back there, I feel I could have no finer travelling companions for such a treacherous journey."

"There's two of us, probably loads of those fucks. As much as I'm a betting man, I'd wager those odds wouldn't turn out in our favor," Bronn replied. "What I really ought to do is take those shiny rings from your fingers and leave you here."

Tyrion's eyes darted to Freya as she laughed. "You could try that," she smiled, with the same dangerous glint in her eye he had witnessed after their battle with the tribesman, "Can't say it would go well for you."

"Is that a bet?" Bronn asked, his hand going to the hilt of his sword in jest, as they paused on the path.

"If I had the gold to back it. Though in this case I doubt I'd be needing it."

"Can't pay you if I'm dead."

"No, but I'm sure there are more than enough bounties on your head to cover it."

The sellsword chuckled at that, then returned to his cautious observation of the surrounding scrubland as they continued on.

"Besides," Tyrion went on, "If you were to do that, how would I have any means of paying my debt to you? Stick with me and you'll have everything you want and more. But then I'm sure you already knew that. That is why you took up arms so valiantly in my honor."

"Fair enough. But don't go looking for me to bend the knee and 'm'lord' you every time you take a shit. I'm not your toady, and I'm not your friend."

"It's not your friendship I require. Freya, here, has proven herself quite capable of providing that of a far higher quality than I have been accustomed to. No, I'm more interested in your facility for murder."

"Seems she could do that for you, too."

"Indeed. But two swords are better than one. And if that little show back there was anything to go by, I'll be needing as many as I can find."

"Word of your capture should have reached your sister by now," Freya said with a thoughtful look.

"I would think so, considering the lack of opposition Lady Arryn faced during our ordeal."

"Your brother, then. I can't imagine he would have taken the news well. He might even be riding for the Vale as we speak."

"Yes, Jaime does have a fondness for me that seems to have escaped the rest of my family, however as you saw in Winterfell the day you fought, he can be called to heel quite easily. If we'll be placing any bets today, it would be that we're very much on our own."

Freya made a resigned face as she stroked Ferox on the muzzle. "Oh well, I'm used to that. At least I'll have more company this time."

They walked on a while longer, Tyrion taking up his fearless tune once more despite the warning of his companions. His stunted legs grew wearier with each step and he glanced back at the animal in Freya's tow. She'd had the mind to offer him the mount, but knew that without the appropriate saddle he would be unlikely to keep his seat. Ferox was of a far stockier build than the sleek, swift mounts favored by the highborns and knights, built to endure the freezing temperatures beyond the Wall, with large hooves to maintain sturdy footing in the snow. With his broad back and general dislike of being mounted by strangers, she knew it would not be long before the short-legged Lannister would find himself back down in the dirt.

"It'll be dark soon," Bronn commented, glancing up at the overcast sky, "Best be finding ourselves a place to set down for the night."

"Can't we continue through?" Tyrion asked, glancing between the two of them. He knew they would not make King's Landing for a number of days, but the chance of finding themselves a nice, warm lodging for the night, out of the elements and the impending threat of rain seemed a far more inviting option, were there any to be had.

"I wouldn't recommend it. Stumbling through the dark down an unfamiliar road…"

"Fine, fine. I suppose we'll at least have a fire to keep us warm." He caught the exchange of glances and looked around at them, taking on an incredulous tone. "No fire?"

Freya seemed to think for a moment, then replied, "We'll see if we can find some cover. We'll decide then."

"Decide whether we'll freeze to death in the night?"

"He's a dramatic one, isn't he?" Bronn said to Freya, who smiled.

"If we're to choose between the cold and the hill tribes, I'd sooner take my chances with the cold. At least we had a taste of the true cold up north. I expect tonight will not come close."

Tyrion gave a resigned nod, loath to endure yet another night without his accustomed wine or a woman to warm his bed, but smart enough to know when to trust the judgement of others. The lady and the sellsword had both travelled the roads of Westeros for far longer than he could ever have claimed to, and it was his hope that relying on such experience might prove to keep him alive a little longer.

They came across a rocky outcrop just as the last of the day's light was fading from the sky. Satisfied that it would provide them with the necessary shelter, they set to work collecting wood and kindling for a fire – at least Bronn and Freya did. Tyrion settled himself onto one of the flatter parts of the rocky cover and proceeded to rub the cramping muscles of his legs. Normally it was something he would have one of his whores do, paying for both their services and their discretion, though he was sure they saved their laughter for after he was gone, when their pockets were already heavy with his gold. He glanced over as Freya dumped a pile of sticks by the crouching sellsword.

"You'll be right with that, then?" she asked him as she brushed her hands on her gambeson. She had shed her armor prior to setting out into the woods, the heavy suit only weighing down her already-weary body.

Bronn looked up at her. "And where are you off to?"

"I'm going to catch our dinner."

Hearing this, Tyrion glanced up once more. "What happened to our supplies from Castle Black?"

"It would seem that the stable boy took it upon himself to relieve Ferox of the extra weight." She sighed as she recalled her cordial treatment of the chubby, young boy as they'd left the Eyrie. "He left the books though, so there is that."

"Here's a better idea," Bronn said as he got to his feet, tossing her a flint he had taken from his pocket, "You stay here with the little lord, and I'll go see if I can't find a rabbit or two."

Freya turned back to Tyrion, and he smirked at her look of contempt at the unspoken judgement. Without another word, she tossed the flint back to its owner and stalked off towards the forest, leaving them to deal with the fire.

"Where did ya find this one, then?" the sellsword asked, cocking his head in the lady's direction as they watched her go.

"Winterfell."

"Doesn't look like a Stark to me."

"Know many Starks, do you?"

Bronn threw him a look then followed his new employer's troubled gaze back towards the forest.

"Look on the bright side," he said, "If the hill tribes get her, they probably won't kill her right away."

* * *

It had been well over an hour when she finally returned, a small goat draped over her shoulders, blood running down the front of her clothes from a gash in its side. The two men watched as she dropped it down to the ground before moving to collect something from her saddlebags. She returned moments later with some rope, which she proceeded to tie around the animal's hind legs. Tossing the other end over a low-hanging branch, she yanked the carcass up and tied the rope off around the tree trunk. Oblivious to her audience, she took out her dirk, stabbed the animal between the hind legs and dragged the blade downwards in a smooth, sawing motion. As its belly began to open, innards spilled to the ground around her feet. Hearing laughter, she turned to see Bronn clap Tyrion on the shoulder, the Lannister lord a little green around the gills after observing the grisly process.

Smiling, Freya wiped a loose strand of hair away from her face, leaving a streak of blood across her cheek. "You can have the fur, if you like," she told him, as she began the steady process of removing it, "It should be just the right size to sleep on."

"After all the trouble you've gone to, I do believe the spoils should go to you."

"I insist," she replied, tipping him a wink as she yanked the skin down off its hindquarters.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Bronn asked later as they shared their meal. Every so often the small fire between them would crackle as fat dripped from the cooked goat.

"I used to watch the butcher when I was a girl."

"Why?" Tyrion frowned, taking another bite from the rib clutched between his greasy fingers.

"I was curious, I guess. You've never wondered where your food comes from?"

"I'm usually more concerned with where it's going," he replied, tossing the meat-stripped bone on the ground.

"I suppose when you have servants to do all that for you…"

Tyrion cut her off with a scoff. "And what about you, then? You grew up in a castle, just as I did."

"Blessbind is no Casterly Rock, I can assure you."

"Did you or did you not have servants?"

She gave a sly smile of defeat. "One or two."

"The two of you," Bronn shook his head, tossing a bone into the fire, "Arguing over which of yas had more servants. Tell me, if you're a lady of some fancy house, how is it you're working for 'im?"

"She's not 'working for me'."

"She offered to fight for ya before I did."

"So she did."

A sudden understanding seemed to come over the sellsword as he glanced between them, gesturing with his dirk. "So the two of yas are-"

"No!" Tyrion interrupted, before he could finish the thought and embarrass the poor girl. But Freya seemed amused by the whole exchange, her smirk only just visible in the low light of the fire as she pulled a chunk of meat from the tip of her dirk.

"At least it was his second guess. My uncle asked the same thing."

"And why must that always be the assumption?"

"Well, I doubt anyone's first thought would be to take her for a fighter," Bronn commented.

"Until I've donned my helm, drawn my sword."

"Even then."

"They'd sooner mistake me for a whore," Freya nodded, used to, by now, every assumption, every rumor and every kind of judgment that could be made, "And a well-armored whore at that."

The sellsword grinned as he cut another thick chunk of charred meat from the goat's hindquarters. "So if we do happen to make it to the riverlands, what's the plan? Where do you intend to go?"

Tyrion was thoughtful for a moment as he picked a piece of gristle from between his teeth. "Casterly Rock or King's Landing, for a start. I have some questions regarding a certain dagger."

"So you were telling the truth?" Bronn glanced between them.

"No," Freya deadpanned, "We two conspired to murder a small child in his bed as his grieving mother looked on. It truly brought us closer together as friends."

Giving her a disapproving look for the sarcastic response, Tyrion turned back to address the sellsword, "Do I look like a liar to you?"

Appearing convinced, at least for the moment, the sellsword went back to his meal.

* * *

By the time the stars had come out and the moon was rising over the mountains, they'd had their fill of meat and were finally settling in for a much-needed respite. As Tyrion laid out on his gifted goatskin, he slowly began to drift into an uncomfortable doze, his one luxury what little warmth their small fire gave off. Bronn sat to one side, running his whetstone over the length of his sword, the familiar rasp bringing some comfort in their current situation. He glanced over at Freya, who had offered to take watch as Tyrion slept, and who had seemed all the warier when the sellsword volunteered in her stead. She gazed at the fire now in a thoughtful trance, absentmindedly stroking her steed's neck as he lay beside her, his body providing an effective barrier against the cold night air.

"You can sleep, you know," Bronn told her.

She looked over at him, a small, suspicious crease marking her brow.

"I'm not gonna ransack the two of yas and steal off into the night, if that's what you're thinking."

"It might have been," she confessed.

Bronn chuckled, then froze as a branch snapped somewhere off in the distance. Both of them were on their feet in seconds, hands going to the hilts of their swords as they glanced around, ears pricked for the slightest sound of incoming trouble. Ferox gave a soft nicker and shook his mane. A few minutes passed, and when they were finally satisfied that it had merely been some animal passing through, they turned back to gaze at the fire. Exchanging a look, they both reached down and tossed a couple of handfuls of dirt over the flames, effectively snuffing it out. A simple precaution, but better to be cold than dead.

* * *

It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that trouble eventually found them. Freya, who had finally allowed herself to settle into a light slumber, woke in an instant at the sound of snapping twigs. One glance at Bronn was all it took for her to realize that this wasn't to be another false alarm. Springing to her feet, she drew her sword, the sharp ring of the fine metal seeming all the louder as their senses heightened in preparation for the incoming threat. Ferox rose steadily behind her, nudging her arm with his nose before giving a snort.

Clutching his sword, eyes darting around the surrounding woods, Bronn stepped slowly over to the small, sleeping form of Tyrion and gave him a prod with the toe of his boot.

"Tyrion."

Still the little lord continued to snore, oblivious to the approaching danger. He tried again, this time a little louder, his voice a harsh whisper.

"Tyrion!"

As Tyrion finally stirred, both Freya and Bronn drew their secondary weapons, Freya catching the sellsword remove his from a sheath on his back, hidden by his cloak. She supposed for a man of his kind of character, it would be necessary to carry at least one concealed weapon.

 _Never reveal your entire self... You never want your enemies to know everything about you._ As her words to Jon echoed in her mind, she started to look around, seeking out things that might assist her should they come to blows with the hill tribes. Loose stones, fallen trees, even low hanging branches that might make it easy to climb…she calculated every possibility she could, every means of escape they might need. Though this had long been her habit as a woman who often found herself falling into potentially dangerous situations – travelling alone on the road, surrounded by bitter losers at tourneys or even the simple act of taking shelter in a crowded tavern – her first choice would always be to fight. As Tyrion pushed himself to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his bleary eyes, he caught sight of their raised weapons and finally became aware of the situation at hand.

One moment there was nothing, the next they found themselves surrounded. A dozen or more tribesmen appeared from the scrub, out from behind trees, seeming as though to materialize from behind their stony shelter. Freya and Bronn took on a defensive position, standing back to back with Tyrion in the middle, his eyes large as the strange savages drew closer. One from the group stepped forward, an enormous man with legs like tree trunks, his arms just as thick with muscle. He wore the same filthy furs as the others, as well as a poorly-crafted, goats-horn helm, and his face and what parts of him were visible were riddled with scars. As he came towards them, Freya wasn't sure what was more offensive: the threatening way he thrust his weapons at them, or the foul stench he gave off. Feeling movement behind her, Freya turned and found Tyrion had left the safety of their protection to attempt to approach the big man.

"Come," he offered with a friendly smile, "Share our fire."

"What are you doing?" she whispered from the side of her mouth, not taking her eyes of the surrounding enemies.

"Trust me," he returned quietly. Then, turning back to the newcomers, went on in his jovial manner, "Help yourselves to some of our goat."

"Our goat," the leader spat back.

Tyrion's eyes flicked to Freya. Considering the manner and dress of these men, he doubted they came from any sort of civilized village or encampment. Certainly not one organized enough to keep its own livestock. She had taken the goat from the forest. Their forest, it would seem.

"When you meet your gods," the big man said, "Tell them Shagga son of Dolf of the Storm Crows sent you."

Glancing around, Tyrion carefully thought out his next move. "I am Tyrion son of Tywin of Clan Lannister."

"How would you like to die, Tyrion son of Tywin?"

"In my own bed, at age eighty, with a belly full of wine and a girl's mouth around my cock," he tried.

Both Freya and Bronn glanced over at him, then back at the tribesmen, awaiting their reaction. If anything could be said about Tyrion Lannister, it was that he was uncommonly inept at talking his way out of trouble. He had already proven his ability back at the Eyrie, and even back at the crossroads tavern, where he had first caught Bronn's attention with the flip of a gold coin. If brains didn't work, he at least had the brawn to back it up.

Shagga was the first to laugh, a big, hearty belly laugh, soon followed by a number of his men. Smiling, feeling he may have succeeded in winning these beastly men over, Tyrion gave a merry laugh of his own.

"Take the half-man," Shagga ordered, "He can dance for the children. The woman and horse are ours. Kill the other one."

A fierce look came over Freya and she stepped forward, ready to meet their steel with her own, but Tyrion raised a hand to stop her.

"No, no! My house is rich and powerful," Tyrion told them, "If you see us through these mountains, my father will shower you in gold."

"We have no use for a half-man's promises."

"Half a man, maybe, but at least I have the courage to face my enemies. What do the Stone Crows do? Hide behind rocks and shiver as the knights of the Vale ride by? Are those the best weapons you could steal? Lannister smiths shit better steel than that."

Shagga glanced down at his rusty axe then sneered. His weapon moved towards the little man, but Freya's arm shot out and caught the intended blow with her blade before it could land. One look at her hard gaze and Tyrion knew she was already set for a battle. Sensing his plan was one slip of the sword away from falling apart, he caught her by the wrist and threw her a beseeching look. She lowered her weapon but remained where she was, staring down the huge man before her. Shagga appeared enraged by the woman's bold behavior, but after getting a glimpse of the rippled steel in her hands, seemed to rethink any ideas of punishment.

"You think you can win us over with empty promises, half-man?"

Tyrion slipped one of the rings from his fingers, a chunky piece of gold shaped like the head of a lion, and held it up to the leader. Shagga regarded it for a moment before reaching out to take it.

"That ring is worth more than everything your tribe owns. If you help us, Shagga son of Dolf, you will have more than shiny, golden rings. You will have this." Tyrion opened his arms to gesture at the surrounding woodlands.

"What is 'this'?" Shagga eyed him warily, looking confused.

"The Vale of Arryn. The lords of the Vale have always spat upon the hill tribes. The lords of the Vale want me dead. I believe it is time for new lords."

Shagga seemed to think this over for a moment before a large, ugly grin spread over his face, revealing a mouthful of broken, rotting teeth. Tyrion smiled back. He had not lost his touch, it would seem.

* * *

It did not take long for word to reach the other hill tribes of Tyrion's proposed offer. They were soon joined by the Burned Men, led by Timmet son of Timmet – who, if it was possible, was even uglier and fouler smelling than Shagga – as well as Chella daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears. Both of the latest members of their bizarre party gave apt representation of their clans. Chella sported a necklace of decaying ears, which, it was explained, she had taken from each enemy she had slain. Timmett had only one eye, the other socket sealed close with thick scar-tissue. It was customary, they were told, that when members of the Burned Men came of age, they would burn themselves in some way to display their courage. Their leader was selected based on the extent of their will to harm themselves. Though most chose to lose a nipple or a finger, Timmett had taken a white hot dagger and plunged it into his eye. He was elected the new chieftain shortly after. Freya was certain there must be an easier way to choose a leader.

Now travelling with folk far more familiar with the roads of the Vale, their journey seemed much faster. In only two days they managed to reach the Riverlands, much to the relief of both Tyrion and his lady companion, who did not wish to spend another night listening to the crude banter of the tribesman, or their numerous threats to cut off each other's cocks, which seemed to be their response to just about everything. After an incident with one of the Stone Crows, who had gotten it into his mind to drag Freya off and have his way with her, Tyrion had been forced to give up yet another jewel-encrusted ring to appease the tribesman, lest he lose a hand to her Valyrian blade and their rocky truce be lost. Freya was glad to see, after that little display, that Bronn had taken to keeping closer by her, ever watchful of the brutish men and women. Though he could not claim to be of particularly high moral standing, it was not often he came into contact with those who could be trusted even less than himself.

Freya also took to riding Ferox once more, worried that one of the tribesmen might at any moment take it upon themselves to mount him and ride off, though she doubted they would make it very far; the snowy steed was just as temperamental as his owner. It was for the same reason she was now dressed in her armor, ever vigilant of the greedy eyes that sought out anything worth stealing. Keeping a steady pace with the rest of the group, they now approached a steady rise. They knew they were close to the crossroads where they had been taken by Lady Catelyn, but as they reached the crest, they came to a sudden halt. The land before them was a sea of red and gold, tents and pavilions sprawling as far as they could see. Though there were no bodies on the fields beyond, it was clear from the trampled ground and fading smoke plumes that the area had seen battle recently.

Freya peered down at Tyrion. "You were saying?"

"This'll be your brother, then?" Bronn asked, but from the apprehensive look on Tyrion's face, it seemed he had a different idea.

"Him, or perhaps my lord father." He turned to address the hill tribes, mustering up as much reassurance as he could as he spoke. "I think it best if the three of us continued on our own."

"Best for Tyrion son of Tywin," Shagga growled, "Not best for me. If the half-man betrays us, Shagga son of Dolf will cut off his cock and–"

"Yes, yes, feed it to the goats," Tyrion finished for him impatiently, so used to the threat by now that it held very little weight.

Freya wondered how it was that the chieftain thought they might escape him when they would be traveling in such plain view. It was then that she realized, despite the displays of bravado and brutal ferocity, these people were afraid of the army set before them; men who had better armor, sharper swords and likely better training. Still, Shagga and the other leaders did not seem to balk at the idea of following them into the midst of the camp. The roles were reversed now, and it was they who would rely on Tyrion to give them safe passage, though they would not be likely to go down without a fight.

With a heavy sigh, Tyrion prepared himself for all that was to come. "All right, then. Time to meet my father."

* * *

Tywin Lannister was one of the most imposing men Freya had ever found herself in the presence of. Despite his age, he still maintained the body of a much younger man, with receding, pale-blonde hair and a sharply intelligent gaze. Donned in his Lannister armor, complete with ornate golden inlays and a roaring lion's head adorning each pauldron, this was a man well-versed in war, and ready to lead an army to victory. Yet as his gaze fell upon his youngest son, the contempt he held was not for the advancing Stark armies, but for the twisted creature in front of him who had sparked the turmoil to begin with.

"Father," Tyrion greeted him, with a thin smile. Tywin considered him for a moment, before his eyes went to the bizarre array of companions behind him. Trust his son to gather up as many other freaks as he could find. He supposed he was more comfortable with his own kind.

"The rumors of your demise were unfounded," he finally spoke, his voice just as commanding as his presence.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Tyrion replied.

"And who are these…companions of yours." His eyes came to rest of Freya for a moment, who adjusted her grip on her helm, her own gaze falling away as she grew uncomfortable. Moving on to glance between the others, Tywin awaited his son's answer, and perhaps an explanation to go with it as to why these feral-looking tribesmen were spoiling his pavilion with their foul odors.

Clearing his throat, Tyrion gestured to the leaders. "This is Shagga son of Dolf, chieftain of the Stone Crows. Timmett son of Timmett, ruler of the Burned Men. And this fair maiden is Chella daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears." Chella glared at the Lannister lord with what might have been derision. It was hard to tell with a woman as repugnant as she was; it may have simply been keen curiosity. Deciding to continue to humor his son, Tywin glanced to the final two companions, awaiting further introductions. "And here we have Bronn, son of…" Tyrion looked to the sellsword for a name, and Bronn simply shrugged.

"You wouldn't know him."

Tyrion turned then to Freya, who was doing her best to conceal a smirk at the sellsword's response. Upon hearing her name, though, she snapped to attention.

"And finally, the lovely woman who stands before you is Lady Freya daughter of– "

"Daughter of Tristan Bainhart. I'm aware."

Tyrion frowned and glanced back at his friend, who appeared equally unnerved by his father's admission. Though he would have looked to her for an answer, as he had with Bronn, having yet to learn the names of her departed family members, he had not expected the answer to come from the man across from him. Despite the warmth emanating from the nearby fire and the heat it provided to the large, enclosed space, Freya felt a cold chill run through her body.

"May I present to you my lord father, Tywin Lannister son of Tytos of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West."

"It's an honor to meet you, my lord," Freya said with a respectful nod, not forgetting the courtesies she had learned so long ago from her maester. Tywin returned the gesture, then turned his gaze back on his son, who was now staring at his friend with a curious expression. He supposed she did not know Tywin the way he did. He could not hold the pleasant formality against her.

"So nice of you to go to war for me," Tyrion said as he faced his father once more.

"You left us no choice. The honor of the house was at stake."

Listening to the man's choice of words and the bitter tone in which he spoke them, Freya began to see that the family's loathing of Tyrion did not stop at Cersei. She saw now why he was so quick to befriend anyone who showed him the slightest ounce of loyalty, even if that loyalty had been bought.

"Your brother would never have submitted to capture so meekly."

"That's where Jaime and I differ, you see. He's braver. I am better looking."

A small smile crept onto Freya's lips and she bowed her head to hide it, certain that Tywin would take offence to her amusement. Ignoring the jape, the stern-looking lord continued on:

"Jaime smashed the River Lords at the Golden Tooth, and now lays siege to Riverrun, Catelyn Stark's homeland."

Freya had to admit, she was impressed by the lengths his family had gone to in order to reclaim their honor, (though no one seemed to have bothered to actually attempt to rescue Tyrion from his captors, perhaps in the hope that they might be too late).

"And the Starks? Lord Eddard?"

"Is our hostage. He will lead no enemies from his dungeon."

Freya frowned. If it wasn't Lord Eddard leading the Stark armies…Robb. She recalled the hatred on the boy's face the last time they had seen him, the pure look of disdain after his defeat at her hands. Then another thought hit her. If Ned Stark was captured…what had become of his men? Catching her expression, Tyrion asked the question for her.

"And what of the men who travelled with him?"

"Your brother saw to it that they were slaughtered," Tywin went on, as if to confirm the lady's thoughts, oblivious to the sting his words caused her. Tyrion offered her a look of condolence. She and Jory hadn't been particularly close, despite their handful of encounters in Winterfell, yet could not deny she had hoped to meet with again in King's Landing. "Stark's son has called his banners. A green boy. One taste of war and he'll run back to Winterfell with his tail between his legs."

"Maybe," Tyrion replied to his father thoughtfully, glancing over at Freya once more as he recalled the show of swords the king had demanded of her, "Though the boy does have a certain belligerence. Tell me, how is it that my sweet sister convinced her husband to imprison his dear friend Ned?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead. Joffrey rules in King's Landing."

Now this was news to all of them. Her gaze had fallen under the weight of her lover's demise, and upon hearing this she kept it that way to hide her horror at the thought of the petulant child sitting the throne. Though perhaps he was a mere puppet in a far greater play for power. Risking a glance at Lord Tywin, she found the man held a fiendish smirk. The Lannisters had finally managed to claw their way to the top.

"My sister rules, you mean," Tyrion said, barely able to process the unexpected turn of events. Lord Tywin did not contest this comment, enjoying his son's loss for words, which seemed a rare occurrence indeed – he was simply pleased that he had been the one to induce it.

They were interrupted then as a filth-ridden, lowborn scout stumbled in through the flaps. He dropped to one knee almost immediately, hardly daring to look his lord ruler in the eye as he spoke, "If it please, m'lord, Ser Addam begs me report that the Northmen have crossed the neck."

This news seemed to please the Lannister lord as he rose to his feet, hand resting on the hilt of his finely crafted sword. "The wolf rushes into the lion's jaws. So be it," he grinned, "Have Ser Addam command the drummers to beat assembly. And send word to Jaime that I am moving against Robb Stark."

"At once, m'lord," the man bid with a quick bow before hurrying off to carry out his orders.

Tyrion held up a finger to gain his father's attention, not forgetting his promise to the tribesmen, who seemed to be getting more restless by the second. This was all far too much talking for them. They were men and women of action, and should the half-man fail to hold up his end of their deal, then action they would indeed take.

"One more thing, father. I have promised these fine men and women new helms, spears, swords, pikes gorgets, maces and whatever else it may be that they shall require before taking their leave for the Vale. And a Lannister always pays his debts," he added, hoping their unofficial house motto might further convince his father to fulfill the order.

Tywin considered the savages for a moment and seemed to devise a plan of his own. He approached Shagga, ignoring his foul stench and, for a moment, treated him as he might any high standing lord sworn to his house. "They say the men of the Mountain Clans are great warriors. Ride with me against my enemies and you shall have all my son promised and more." It seemed that all the Lannisters had a way with words. The tribesmen broke into equally horrific smiles as the false niceties made quick work of stroking their delusional egos.

"Only if the half-man fights with us," Shagga proposed, "Until we hold the steel he promised, the little man's life is ours."

Tywin smirked and gave a brief nod of approval as he locked eyes with his son. "So be it."

* * *

That night, much to Freya's dismay, Tyrion convinced them to join the hill tribes for dinner at their camp just beyond the sea of tents, in a display of camaraderie for their new brothers-at-arms. Lord Tywin would have the tribesmen die for him, it would seem, but still did not see them fit to mix with the highborns sworn to House Lannister.

As she took a seat between Bronn and Tyrion on an old, fallen tree, Freya focused her thoughts on the warmth of both the food Lord Tywin had so kindly provided them, and the large fire the tribes had managed to build.

"I'm sorry you had to find out about Jory in such a way," Tyrion told her, as he tore a loaf of bread into thirds, offering a piece each to his two companions. "Perhaps he was not one of those killed. There might be a slight chance he made it out alive."

Freya had convinced herself that she hadn't given it much thought, that he hadn't meant all that much to her, and answered him with a nod of consideration, her mouth currently busy with a bite of overcooked sausage.

"Who was he? Some lad you were fucking?" Bronn asked casually.

Tyrion shot the sellsword a look and the man gave a shrug as though he had done nothing wrong, tearing off a piece of bread and shoving it into his mouth.

"I didn't know him very long," she admitted, only realizing after she spoke the words the suggestion it made of her character as a woman.

"Ah, well. Plenty more cocks in the sea."

Freya choked on her mouthful of food as Tyrion shot the man another disapproving look, but Bronn simply reached around him with a good-natured grin and clapped the woman on the back. Tyrion was surprised to see, after she had recovered, that the lady was actually laughing rather than offended. He thought of the joke she had made back at Castle Black regarding Yoren's mouth and a certain Lord Commander's balls, and he realized perhaps these two had more in common than he had first surmised. He had grown so used to minding his words around the easily-affronted women of the court. Thinking over his father's words, as he had been since their cold reunion, he was reminded of one detail in particular.

"How do you suppose it is that my father knew yours?"

"I've been thinking about that," Freya admitted, "They did fight on the same side during the war. Perhaps they met on the battlefield." As she spoke, she recalled Tywin's sharp eyes as he had considered her, the same green eyes shared by each of his children, though his were easily the most intimidating.

A sudden commotion from across the fire caught their attention, and they looked on as a fierce argument broke out between one of the Burned Men and a haggard-looking Stone Crow. From what they could make out, it appeared to be over a stolen sausage. Freya glanced at the tribe chieftains, assuming they would step in and end their brothers' quarrel, but both men seemed amused by their behavior. In a blur of movement the Burned Man drew his knife and stabbed the Stone Crow in the neck, sending a spray of blood over the onlookers. Freya winced as the warm liquid caught her across face, then glanced down at the ruined bread in her hands. She gave a heavy sigh then looked up as Bronn rose to his feet. The Burned Man was now attempting to remove the dead man's trousers, likely to fulfill the threat they had so often warned Tyrion he might endure.

"Now, now," the sellsword spoke calmly, as he approached, his hand resting on his sword as a precaution, "There'll be no need for that. The fucker's already dead. Plus, you'll be hard up finding any goats around here."

After a little more convincing, he managed to pry the body from the Burned Man's gore-stained fingers and drag it away from the camp so that they might continue their meal without the stink of shit to further ruin it. Tyrion did his best to move on from the brutish display, but after finding that his own meal had also been spoiled by droplets of spilled blood, tossed it towards the remaining tribesmen and rose from his seat. "Perhaps we might finish our meal a little more peacefully in my tent," he suggested to Freya, who gave a nod and followed suit, but as Tyrion started off towards the camp, he found he wasn't being followed. Turning back he realized she was waiting for Bronn. Though it hadn't occurred to him to invite the sellsword along too, unconsciously grouping him in with the rest of the common rabble, he decided it was only fair that the man who had saved his life might be offered the option of some finer dining. And some wine, too. Definitely some wine.

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for the George R.R. Martin-esque hiatus I seem to have taken from writing this. It's been on the backburner for so long, but I never really forgot about it, and now I feel like I can sit down and focus on it again. I cannot thank everyone enough for all the lovely reviews you've been sending, even when I haven't updated in almost a year. I think I PM'd some of you, and I apologize to those I haven't been able to get around to yet. Things have been hectic and my memory has been like a sieve. Your feedback means so, so much to me, and I have been ecstatic about the response this work has gotten. Writing this chapter was sort of a warm-up, something to help me get back into the swing of things, and it also works to propel the story further forward to where I think things will start to get more interesting. I do reference both the show and the books while writing for accuracy's sake, but I will be trying harder in coming chapters to not recycle dialogue so directly. I look forward to any feedback on this chapter, and I'm looking forward to continuing Freya's adventures once more!**


	12. Chapter 12: Whores, War and Bitter Lords

**Chapter Twelve: Whores, Wars and Bitter Lords**

After sharing a more refined meal of fresh fruits, seasoned venison and rich, fruity wine, Freya was informed she had been given a tent of her own to use for however long it was that this new war held them there. It was a generous offer from Lord Tywin, whose own courtesies seemed not to have been lost even in their troubling predicament. It was not often that Freya used her house's standing, humble though it was compared to House Lannister, to gain any sort of favor, but that did not mean that other highborn lords and ladies overlooked it. In any case, she was always grateful for their hospitality. Smiling to herself as she walked the short distance between her new dwelling and Tyrion's tent, she thought of the stories Bronn had shared as they ate, his crude way of speaking and dry manner of humor making her laugh even now. Had she met him alone on the road, she would have been sure to steer clear of him, by now used to the ability of men like him to charm their unsuspecting marks out of their coin, or if that did not work, then likely kill them for it. But Bronn had proven trustworthy so far, though she suspected that had more to do with the promised gold than his fondness for his employer.

Stepping inside her new quarters, she found herself awash with the comforting warmth of a fire. When she spotted a young girl standing over it, she thought for a moment that she had the wrong tent.

"M-m'lady," the girl stammered, turning towards her with a startled expression. "I h-have fresh water from the river for y-your bath."

After such a long journey from the Wall, and after their unexpected detour to the Vale, there had been very little opportunity to wash. Freya suddenly felt the layers of grime and sweat caked over her. She only hoped she didn't smell as bad as Shagga. The girl was watching her with a quiet patience, as if awaiting further instruction, but Freya fumbled for any to give. She had not lived long at her family's modest castle, and so had very little experience in the way of handmaids. She had grown so used to doing things for herself that she had not thought to need one. Just the thought of having someone wait on her made her uncomfortable.

"Thank-you. Truly," she said, with an awkward smile.

The girl gave a quick bow and set to work removing the copper basin from over the flames, setting it down on a small, wooden table. Freya watched her work, her mind dulled from both the heat and the wine she had shared with Tyrion, enjoying the monotony of the actions. Glancing around the tent, she found a bedroll and furs, as well as a flagon of water and some bread. Seeing the added commodities, she found herself growing suspicious. The Lannisters may have been known for paying their debts, but what they were notorious for liking even more was having people in theirs. She only hoped Tyrion had played a large part in her setup, that it was not some ploy on his father's behalf.

"T-there you are, m'lady. S-shall I do it for you?"

Freya looked over with a frown, unsure what she meant for a moment, then a look of barely-contained horror came over her.

"Oh, no, no. I can manage," she assured her. She took a moment to think about all the lords and ladies too lazy to wash themselves, and the poor souls made to endure it. "What is your name?"

The handmaid glanced over, not used to being addressed by those she served. None had ever cared to learn her name, let alone acknowledged her presence to begin with, unless it was to have their cups refilled.

"W-Wylla, if it pleases you, m-m'lady."

Her smile became more genuine at the young girl's shy manner. She was a pretty thing, petite and dark-haired, with pale skin and grey eyes. She couldn't have been older than twelve. Freya could only guess at the sort of harassment she must have faced at the hands of the Lannister bannermen, observing her skittish behavior as she flittered about readying the water.

"May I ask who sent you, Wylla?"

"I s-serve m-many of the men here. L-Lord Tyrion asked th-that I assist you, too, and th-that I see to any needs you m-might have. He s-suggested hot water be m-made available after your long journey."

Gods bless the dear man, he had at least saved her the trouble of trudging out to the Red Fork and hauling it back herself.

"W-will there be anything else, m-m'lady?"

She had a thought to offer her shelter, should one of those men decide to take their harassment further, but before she could say anything, the girl gave another polite bow and took her leave. She imagined with an army of this size she would be a busy little thing indeed, though the thought offered her little comfort for the girl's wellbeing. Doing her best to push this from her mind, she set to work removing her clothes, finding that they too were in good need of a wash. She had others in her saddlebags that she could use for now, until she found a suitable time to make the trip to the river. Perhaps she would have Wylla do it for her. The thought of giving the young girl orders simply did not sit well with her.

Slipping the provided cloth into the heated water, she proceeded to run it over every inch of her body she could reach. It wasn't long before the liquid in the basin grew murky with dirt and blood, and after what felt like hours, she finally felt clean. Dressing in a simple, linen shirt she had to spare, she poured herself some water and rested on her furs. Her thoughts drifted immediately to Jory, and she tested her feelings on the matter, sensing more disappointment than sadness. She would not weep for him. She had not wept for anyone for a very long time.

* * *

The following morning Bronn found her stalking through the camp with a dark look on her face. Watching for a moment, he caught a few murmurs from the soldiers as she passed them by. There were a few titters, then one of them turned after her, calling, "Has someone lost their whore?" The men around him erupted with laughter and Freya fought to keep her composure, coming to a halt but not looking back. Catching her expression, the way her hand went immediately to her sword, Bronn strode towards her, taking her by the wrist before she could draw. Glancing at the surrounding knights who eyed them curiously, each man looking battle-ready in their heavy suits of armor, he leaned down to speak to her, "Best be lettin' that one go."

"You don't think I could take them?" she replied, glancing up at him with a fierce glint in her eye.

"Oh, I'm sure you could. But where would that leave us with the Lion Lord? Let the Stark boy kill these fucks, save yourself the trouble."

Wrenching herself from his grasp, she gave one last sweeping glance at the soldiers, then took the sellsword's advice. Usually she was more adept at picking her fights, but her day had been off to a shitty start from the moment she had woken.

"Who pissed in your wine?" he asked her, as he followed along beside her. She turned her unpleasant scowl on him once more, then sighed.

"Someone took my helm." The crease between her brows deepened as he chuckled. "Oh, is that funny?"

"A little," he smirked. "So which of these cunts do you think it was?"

"Could have been any one of them. They've all taken so warmly to my presence here."

"Want some help looking?"

She glanced over at him, suspicious of the generous proposal. "Are you expecting a reward?"

"What are you offering?" he replied, with a coy smile. Her sour expression finally broke, replaced with a reluctant smile of her own.

"What's got you walking the camp at this hour?" she asked.

"Tyrion's tasked me with tracking him down a whore."

"And how's that going?"

"Not well. How's this? You help me find our little lord a whore, I'll help track down your helm."

"What makes you think I'd be of any help?"

"You know him better than I do."

"So you think I'd know where he'd most like to stick his cock?"

"You've got a dirty mouth for a noble woman."

"I'm not a noble woman. My mother was, though."

He chuckled at that before coming to a stop at a crossroads. They looked each way, hoping for some indication as to the goods they sought.

"Where shall we start?"

"Best start by asking 'round. Bound to be a few floatin' around 'ere."

"Good idea. Ask the soldiers where you might find a whore. I'm sure no comments will be made at my expense."

"Thought you'd be used to that shit by now. I imagine you've been hearin' it most o' your life."

"I'm also used to resolving said shit with my fists or my blade, which in this case you've deemed inappropriate."

"I have."

"So that leaves me with no option but to endure it."

"Looks like we're in luck," he interrupted, nodding towards a woman a few tents down. She stood out the front of it, covering her bare chest with a soiled cloak as she attempted to garner the attention of any nearby men. As they drew closer, they started to see why so many passed her by. She was quite old, with streaks of silver running through her raven-black hair, years spent in the sun giving her skin a worn, leathery quality. A dark charcoal adorned her eyes, bringing out their lovely shade of green, but that was the only beauty she held claim to. Her belly was soft from many children, and her teats, though large, drooped in a way that was hardly appealing. Seeing them approach, she offered her best attempt at a seductive smile, though considering the state of her mouth, it failed to have the desired effect.

"I'd wager this one's found about as many willing men as she has teeth left," Freya said, while they were still out of earshot.

Bronn grinned. "You'd be surprised. Men aren't picky, especially when they know a day could be their last. Some might even say the fewer the teeth the better."

Crinkling her nose at the thought, Freya bypassed the woman and led the way to yet another crossroads.

"So you'd spend a night with her?"

"I've 'ad worse," he replied, "Plus everything feels the same in the dark." Catching her shake her head, he went on: "I suppose you're into the pretty lads, eh? Jaime Lannister types, all shiny hair and fancy armor."

She gave a derisive laugh. "Piss on the Jaime Lannister's of the world."

"Sure, if you're into that sort of thing."

"They're the ones quickest to make jokes, but slowest to accept their defeat. Little honor, and even less brains."

"Who needs brains when you've got sharp steel? If you needed both, this army'd be half the size it is now."

She cocked her head in consideration. He made a fair point. Pausing for a moment to scan the line of tents to her left, she thought again of her stolen helm and felt her anger reignite. She had stored it in her tent with the rest of her armor, which meant not only had someone thought it funny to relieve her of it, but they had also invaded her space as she slept. Though she still kept her dirk under her pillow out of habit, the thought of someone being so close with her unawares made her sick to the stomach.

"You lot seen any whores wandering around 'ere?" she heard Bronn ask. Turning back, she found a group of soldiers seated around a fire, in the middle of a game of dice. Just as she'd predicted, a couple of them glanced over at her and got the same mocking glint in their eyes she'd seen a thousand times before. With a deep, steady breath, she turned away. She almost jumped as a hand landed on her shoulder, old instincts urging her to go for her knife. She did not mind the company of men in most cases, but with close to twenty thousand of them milling around, each of them highly-skilled with a blade and likely stronger than her, she found herself feeling very small indeed. She had never been part of a large host, never sworn fealty to any lord or lady. She wondered where she would be now if she hadn't taken to Tyrion as she had, though she supposed their paths had aligned further than just Winterfell.

"No luck," Bronn told her, failing to catch her moment of weakness. "Someone told me to look for Ser Gerwold, but fuck if I know where to find him." Glancing over as she remained quiet, he noticed her distant expression. "Where's that horse of yours? We could make quicker work of this if you were on that beast."

"I turned him out to the field for a while. He'll return when I need him," she replied, her voice huskier than usual as she spoke in low tones. Someone had thought to tie Ferox up outside of her tent, but it hadn't been long before he had yanked the post from the ground and made an attempt to enter. Though the other horses were tethered the same way throughout the camp and could have freed themselves in the same manner, the greater part of their restraint remained in their mind, so used to bending to the will of their masters and enduring their lack of freedom. But Ferox had always found a way to escape. In his mind, he had never been broken.

After continuing on a little ways, they came across a smaller camp on the outskirts of the main host. As was the case when most high lords were on the march, a number of people had latched onto the lord's party to seek their fortune. Ignoring the leering looks she was receiving from a couple of hedge knights, Freya spotted two women tending to another by the smoking remnants of a fire.

"This one looks promising," Bronn commented, nodding towards the one on the right, a young woman with mousy hair and creamy skin. A pair of perky breasts threatened to spill over her bodice, a small waist tapering in before reaching a round ass and thick thighs. Exchanging optimistic glances, their hopes were soon forgotten as the women looked towards them. The 'promising' one turned to reveal a belly swollen with child, but it was not this detail that had Freya looking concerned. Young Wylla was seated between them, a cloak draped around her as her body shuddered with sobs. Freya went to her immediately, forgetting completely the task that had brought them there to begin with. She dropped to one knee in front of her and looked at the others for answers.

"What happened?"

The second woman, whom they had not yet taken into account, turned to give Bronn a hard look of warning not to come any closer, then replied, "Beaten and raped. We found her stumbling through the camp, bleeding and crying."

The corner of his mouth turned down in displeasure, Bronn stepped away to give the women some space, keeping an eye out for any man who might try their luck again.

Freya looked the girl over with a sweeping glance, finding bruises up her arms and, from what was visible beneath the hem of her torn dress, along her thighs. She sported a swollen, purple bruise on her cheek, a bloodied nose and, beneath that, a split lip. Though her first instinct was to ask who had done this, she knew the girl would never tell for fear of further punishment, and beyond that it would be harder still to find all those who had partaken in the violent act. Freya could only hope that when they did finally meet Robb Stark's men in battle, the animals responsible would suffer slow and painful deaths.

"You should have a maester see to her," she told the older two, "Or better yet, get her as far away from here as you can."

The other woman, a stern-looking redhead with lips that seemed almost permanently pursed in irritation, shook her head. "We came here to earn our coin. We're not about to leave-"

Freya rose to her feet and thrust her hand into the pouch on her belt, producing several coppers and a couple of silver coins. She made to hand them to her, then paused before giving them instead to the pregnant one. She took them with far greater appreciation, one hand still resting on the beaten child's shoulder as Wylla continued to sob.

"Have the maester see to her. If he gives you trouble, tell him Tyrion Lannister commanded it. Do you have a horse?" Freya asked her, and she nodded. "Once she's been seen to, ride for Darry. It's half a day's ride at the most. Seek shelter there, and if they too give you trouble, you tell them the same thing." The girl gave another fervent nod and slowly helped Wylla to her feet. Ignoring the jilted redhead's stormy expression, Freya turned and started back for the main camp, Bronn lengthening his strides to keep up with her.

"Speaking on our little lord's behalf now, are ya?"

"If he were here, he would have done the same."

"And I'm sure he'd've been just as free with his coin, too. How do you know she won't leave the girl for dead in some forest and run off with it?"

"The other one would have."

"And this one's any different?"

"If there's one thing I've learned from living on the road, Bronn, it's how to read people. That woman's with child."

"What, so you're relying on some sorta motherly instinct kicking in? If there's one thing _I've_ learned, it's that the world's full of cunts. Like as not, that girl's not any better off than before."

Freya stopped and turned to him, and he was surprised to see how genuinely affected she was. He was sure she had seen worse things on her travels, but it was then that he realized perhaps she had been one forced to endure them.

"I did my part," she spat, "What else would you have had me do? They needed the coin more. I've no doubt I'll find a way to obtain some again. Maybe I can bet my blade against some of these pricks."

"That's not half a bad idea."

The movement of a tent flap caught their attention. A woman stepped out, quickly followed by a big, ginger-haired soldier, who reached out a grabbed her by the shoulder. She pulled away, spinning to face him with a vicious glare.

"Get your hands off me!" she growled, thrusting a threatening finger in his direction, using the other hand to secure the fur around her shoulders, "Touch me again and I will be sure to cut your throat while you sleep."

Bronn and Freya exchanged looks. There was something regal about this one, the way she held herself and her manner of dress. Her fine face held elegant features, with dark, clever eyes and high cheekbones. She could almost have been mistaken for some lost, highborn lady were it not for her low-cut dress and the cheap fabric from which it was made. The fur had likely been a gift.

As they made their way over, the ginger knight grabbed hold of her again and yanked her back into the tent. He raised his hand to strike her, failing to hear the rustle of material as more stepped in behind him. A blade appeared beneath his chin, and he looked down the rippled steel to the woman holding it, letting his whore go with a sneer, hand still poised for the intended blow. Bronn stepped in past them and guided the other woman back, offering her a look of reassurance as she turned her offended glare on him. She seemed to settle down some when she realized they were there to help, then turned back to watch Freya handle her aggressor.

"You! You fucking bitch," he jeered at her, seeming more amused than concerned for his predicament. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"I'd ask the same of you," Freya told him, calmly.

"I'm keeping this cunt in line. I paid for her, and this is what I get for it, the ungrateful little whore. You'd be sucking the cock of some hedge knight if it weren't for me!" he turned to yell at the woman, "Now both of you best leave my tent, before I spoil its floor with your blood."

"I don't think so. And she's coming with us."

He laughed openly in her face, appearing to no longer care about the Valyrian steel a mere inch from his throat. "On second thought, I might keep you here with her. Two whores to warm my bed. And I've always wanted to see what it's like to fuck the famous Ladyknight."

Some of the dark humor retreated from Freya's face at the mention of the mocking title. Her grip tightened on her hilt and the knight smirked as he caught her jaw tense. He stepped closer, daring her to make her move.

"I could cut you in such a way that you'd never again have the chance to disappoint a woman in their bed," she said in a low, dangerous voice.

He stared her down, a new fury glistening in his eyes as the insult struck him, and he took hold of her by the wrist. Risking a glance back at Bronn, Freya spotted a glint of copper from the corner of her eye, ignoring the pain in her arm as the knight tightened his grip. There, towards the back of the tent, sat her helm. Rage tore through her, and without a second thought she punched the man hard in the face with her free hand. Releasing her, taken completely by surprise, he stumbled back and tripped over a bedroll, landing hard on his ass. Red in the face from both the fall and succumbing to a blow from a woman, he moved to draw his sword, only to find a second blade against his neck. He glanced up at Bronn.

"Come at her again, and Tywin Lannister'll have one less shitstain knight to die for him."

Sensing the futility of the situation, the knight remained where he was as Freya collected her stolen property. She turned to the other woman, who came towards her without needing to be asked and followed her out of the tent. Bronn waited until they were gone before he withdrew his sword.

"And I wouldn't think of trying anything with her in the night, if I was you," he warned the shamed man, "You've embarrassed yourself enough for one day. And if she doesn't kill ya, I will."

* * *

Tyrion heaved a sigh as he waddled towards his tent, his mind heavy with his father's words after another short meeting with the man. Thankful though he was that it had not proven longer, his main interest in sitting at the table with the host of other lords had been the food and wine that was provided for them – he cared little for their talk of war. Now his belly continued to rumble for its fill. He had come to find he could stomach little more of his father's company. He had wine in his tent, at least, and with any luck Bronn had been successful in securing him a woman to share his bed. Seeing all the soldiers out and about, talking, laughing and readying themselves for the upcoming battle, he wondered how Freya fared as the lone woman of the group of fighters. It was well within his power to have any man executed or sent to the wall should they give her any trouble, but then he knew well by now that she could handle herself. Still, it didn't stop him worrying.

As he entered his tent now, he was surprised to see the three standing inside – Bronn and Freya seated casually on his table as they picked at his bowl of fresh fruits, and a second woman by his bed, clutching a fur stole around her shoulders. As taken as he was by this new woman's beauty, he turned to glance between his two friends, noting the increasingly-comfortable air between them as they shared his food.

"I see he roped you into this," he said to Freya, as she bit into a ripe, juicy plum.

"Didn't take much ropin', really," Bronn replied for her.

Tyrion shot her a curious look, but she simply shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Glancing between the pair once more, a hint of suspicion to his gaze, he turned back to his beauty. "Where did you find one so pretty at this hour?"

"We took her," the sellsword replied.

"Rescued her, more like," Freya added, through a mouthful of plum.

"Rescued? From whom?"

Bronn looked to Freya as if she might have a better idea when it came to the names of all the highborns and their knights, but she shook her head.

"I don't know," he went on, "Some ginger cunt. Big fucker, no brains."

Freya chuckled. "Does that narrow it down?"

"And he didn't have anything to say about it?" Tyrion wondered.

The lady and the sellsword offered matching smirks. "He said some things," Bronn answered.

Frowning at the thought of some enormous man bursting into his tent in the middle of the night to reclaim what was his, Tyrion recalled the news he had for them.

"Well, the odds of me living long enough for him to retaliate just dropped drastically."

They gazed at him, confused, awaiting further elaboration on this sudden announcement.

"We'll be at the vanguard tomorrow."

The moment had suddenly lost its humor. Tywin was putting them on the frontline; fodder for this highborn pissing contest. Freya had made a point of avoiding swearing any sort of fealty to one particular lord or another, but somehow by befriending Tyrion she had managed to find herself counted as an unofficial bannerman to House Lannister. Being from the Reach, her house was sworn to House Tyrell by a default of proximity, but she had only ever seen one of the members – Ser Loras – from a distance, and that was by chance as he rode by during a tourney. She had never wanted to be part of some lord's war.

"Ah, well," Bronn said, with a look of reluctant acceptance, before draining the remainder of his wine from his cup. He looked over at Freya to see how she had taken the news, but she had gone into a thoughtful trance, her grey eyes focused on the floor as she took the last bite of her plum. When she finally met his gaze, he admired the lack of fear he saw. Sure, she didn't like the idea of fighting for some lord, but she never turned down a good fight.

Leaving Tyrion to properly get to know his new lady, she and Bronn stepped outside.

"Why don't you come try your luck at some dice?" the sellsword offered, feeling the urge to keep her in his company just a little longer.

"Yes, I might even win the chance to reclaim my own helm," she joked.

"If one of these fucks makes off with it again, you have my permission to cut off whatever part of him you see fit."

"Shagga would be so proud."

Bronn laughed at that, admiring the sly way her lip curled up in appreciation of her own joke, and the color that rose in her cheeks.

"And as pleased as I am to have your permission," she mocked, "I think I'll go see how my faithful steed is fairing."

"Fair enough."

He watched her as she headed for the field on the far side of the camp, his gaze only moving from her ass to meet her eyes as she turned around to speak once more. "Oh, and if you go looking for a whore, don't let it be the redhead."

"Lady Toothless it is, then," he smirked, pleased to see the jape have its effect on her. She had a pretty laugh, and he was becoming rather fond of hearing it.

* * *

It wasn't long before they found themselves in each other's company once more, as they made their way towards their individual sleeping quarters for rest and refreshments. Bronn had won a handsome sum from his dice game with the Lannister soldiers, and had planned on spending at least some of it on whatever whore happened to be available (even if it was Lady Toothless), when he spotted Freya making her way back from the fields. She had been smiling to herself, seemingly oblivious to the whispers and taunts being thrown around her as she passed by tents, and men seated around fires. It hadn't been long before Bronn found himself falling into step beside her, comfortably matching her strides.

"So," she said to him, "Was it better without teeth?"

Laughing, he went on to tell her about the game with the Lannister men, all the usual, expected rumors regarding the nature of her relationship with Tyrion, and the new, unexpected one about her and his lord father. It seemed the only active part of these men's minds was their imagination.

"I'm sure I could see their point," he teased, "With the fuss you put on for him the first day we arrived. 'An honor to meet you, my lord'. You looked ready to get on your knees for the man, and I don't mean to swear your fealty."

She shot him a sarcastic smile. "Here's an idea. Why don't you that shitty steel at your hip, and shove it up your–"

"Shitty steel? I suppose once our friend finally pays his debt to me, as he keeps sayin' he will, I'll make a trip down to the fancy sword store and pick one up like yours, eh?"

"Oh, is he your friend now?"

Nearing her quarters, Bronn held back from his next comment as they spotted a head poking out a couple of tents down. It turned towards them.

"Ah, there you are!" Tyrion grinned, ushering them over. Curious, they exchanged looks and followed him inside the tent, where they found their rescued whore seated on his bedroll and furs.

"Help Shae and I settle a bet."

* * *

Moments later, he and Shae were sat side-by-side, balancing a burning candle between their forearms. Their small audience looked on with amusement. Shae was watching him with a confident smirk, as though she already knew exactly how this was going to turn out. As the candle wax continued to run between their arms, Tyrion fought to keep from breaking away. It wasn't until the flame licked against his skin that he jerked away, letting the candle tumble to the floor. Shae was quick to pluck it up, extinguishing it with a swift puff from between her pretty lips.

"Damn you, woman. Are you immune to pain?" Tyrion asked, with a playful scowl.

His lady smirked. "Only used to it."

Freya found herself caught between concern and curiosity over the comment, unsure whether this woman had been abused or was merely into some interesting games in the bedroom.

"Let's play a new game," Tyrion suggested, rubbing at the red marks on his arm where hot wax had graced his flesh.

"I know a Braavosi knife game I could teach you," Bronn suggested, pouring out two glasses of wine, one for him and one for Freya, who waited patiently beside him.

"Does it involve the potential for losing fingers?" asked Tyrion.

"Not if you win," came Bronn's reply.

"I'm in," Freya said, pulling out her dagger.

She and Bronn looked at Tyrion awaiting his reply, but his expression spoke well enough.

"No! No knife games."

Freya returned her dagger to its sheath and accepted her cup of wine from the sellsword before joining Tyrion and Shae on the pile of pillows scattered on the ground.

"Let's do something I'm good at," Tyrion went on.

"Spending gold and bedding whores? We'll need more of both if we want to even the odds for everyone else," Freya smirked.

Bronn chuckled and took a sip of his drink as Tyrion scowled at the young woman. In truth, he'd known Freya too long now to be offended by anything she said, but for Shae's sake he held the disapproving expression. What had happened to the gentle, brooding girl he'd travelled with to the Wall? It seemed that their adventures had changed them both. Or perhaps this Freya had been the real one all along, hidden away from those she'd yet to trust. He was certain their sellsword friend had something to do with the sudden change, but in the end, it made no great difference to him; he liked this Freya better.

Shae, who had denied ever being a whore since she'd first been brought to Tyrion's tent, ignored Freya's comment. "What are you good at?" she asked the small lord, humor in her voice.

His offended look became even more exaggerated.

"I happen to be a great judge of character," he told her, "Just ask my friends here."

Freya looked to Bronn, thought for a second, and then shook her head. "I'm not seeing your point."

"This sounds like a boring game, anyway," Bronn said.

"It's not. Here's how we play. I make a statement about your past. If I'm right, you drink. If I'm wrong, I drink. And no lying! I'll know if you're lying."

Shae opted out as she considered the games rules. "I don't like this game."

Freya, however, settled deeper into the cushions, rapt by the idea.

"Fine. Bronn first, then." Tyrion shuffled closer to the sellsword and stared intently at him, as if he could read the man's past on his face.

"Your father beat you," was his first guess.

Bronn stared back at him, and then took a drink. Tyrion looked at Shae and gestured as if to say how easy the game was, but she still seemed unimpressed.

"But me mother hit harder," Bronn added.

As he refilled his cup, Tyrion considered what next to say, heartened by his correct guess. Freya watched the pair with a curious smile, silently looking forward to her own turn. She'd often wondered what guesses Tyrion had made about her past. She didn't like to talk about it much, but since she'd grown closer to him and his unlikely followers, she found herself more eager to open up, given the right circumstances.

She shifted her weight on the large pillow and waited.

"You killed your first man before you were twelve."

Bronn gazed at Tyrion, amused, and said, "It was a woman."

Tyrion scoffed, but took a drink.

Feeling Shae's eyes trained on him, Bronn looked around and met her disdainful look with a shrug. "She swung an axe at me," he said, as if to remedy the reaction. He glanced at Freya, but she seemed unfazed by the confession.

"You've been beyond the Wall," was Tyrion's next guess.

Again, Bronn seemed entertained by the man's talent for reading others, and took a drink.

Now that was an interesting one, Freya thought, taking a sip of her own wine without thinking. Tyrion caught the unconscious action and found himself suddenly more interested in the young woman beside him. She was next, he told himself.

Shae was a trifle more curious about Bronn's answer, and asked him why it was he'd had to venture so far north in the first place.

"Work," was the only answer she received.

" _And_ ," Tyrion continued, now looking to end Bronn's turn all the sooner, "You once loved a woman many years ago, but it turned out badly, so you've never let yourself love again."

Freya gazed at the sellsword, curious as to what his answer might be, before recalling the story Tyrion had told her on their way to the Wall. Bronn merely looked at him as if to ask if he were joking. Mock-realization came over Tyrion's face as he ended the joke. "Oh, wait, that's me."

He took a drink, then looked to Freya, who took the cue to shuffle in closer, smiling expectantly at her friend.

"Now you, my dear," he said, studying her face much like he had Bronn's. "You…you, you, you…"

He seemed at a loss for where to begin. He could read any number of things from her soft features, and he'd heard a phenomenal amount of tavern rumors about the girl, but since his gift lay in separating the truth from the fiction, he would have to do better than to repeat the words of drunken bar rats.

"Your parents died when you were very young."

She drank.

"Your father…was killed in battle. Your mother, stricken with grief, took her own life."

A funny look came onto Freya's face, but still she drank. Bronn, surprised by his accuracy, refilled the girl's cup. But Freya was certain that Tyrion had heard that information somewhere before.

"You decided to learn how to fight so that you could avenge your father's death."

Freya looked at him expectantly and, surprised, he took a drink from his own cup.

"You took up a sword because you didn't want to end up like ya mother."

Bronn surprised them both as he jumped in. Freya gazed at him, and took a drink. After word had reached them of her father's demise, her mother had locked herself away in her bedroom tower and hadn't come out until the day they'd found her with a dagger stuck in her heart by her own hands. Freya had watched them carry the woman out with the knife still inside her, blood stained across her soiled nightgown. She hadn't bathed or eaten since the news of her husband, nor had she ever asked to see her daughter, her only child. At only six years of age, Freya learned a valuable lesson, one that she still carried with her: weakness was the bride of Death. The only person you could trust to keep you alive was yourself.

"She was weak."

"But you had fight. And judging by the bloodied men we've left in our wake, you still do."

Finding something rather curious about the way Bronn read her, Tyrion gestured for him to continue, electing to take the spectator's position. Freya took the flagon of wine from Bronn and poured herself a fresh cup as he looked her over, using more than just her face to deduce a few truths. Though her arms and legs held muscle that came from years of combat training, she still had a slight build, and he could only imagine what she'd looked like the first time she taken up a blade. A skinny little creature barely able to lift the bloody thing, most like.

"You were a shit swordsman to begin with."

"Who wasn't?"

"And you nearly gave it up after your first failure."

She sighed, drank and refilled.

"I put down my sword for a week, and tried my hand at the bow. To this day, I'm still a shit archer."

Tyrion chuckled. "I think I speak for many when I say I'm very glad you picked up that sword again."

"You didn't kill your first man" – Bronn used the word 'man' with far more conviction than Tyrion had – "until you were a lot older than most would think. I'd make me guess at…sixteen, seventeen?"

"Sixteen," she agreed, "He was the first to die by my blade, but not the first to grace it with his blood."

She drank.

Tyrion was staring at her with unguarded surprise.

"What?"

"That wouldn't have been my guess," he admitted.

"What would you have said?" she asked, curious.

"Likely the same as I said about Bronn."

"Killing a man's not as easy for some as it is with others. I just have a gift for making it appear easy."

Bronn swirled the dark liquid in his cup as he devised a new statement for her. Glancing at Shae, a new thought occurred to him.

"You've been with a woman before."

Tyrion's eyes grew large at the thought, like an idle highborn lady hearing a juicy bit of gossip. He stared intently at her, waiting for her answer, or perhaps hoping for one in particular. Freya held Bronn's gaze, giving nothing away. Then she and Shae exchanged a look that made Tyrion's cock stir.

Smiling to herself, she drank.

"Once," she explained, "when I was younger. But I found I didn't like it."

"Why on earth not?" Tyrion heard himself ask before he could stop himself.

"If I wanted to grab a pair of tits, I've got a perfectly good pair of my own."

"I'll drink to that," Bronn said, emptying his cup. But Tyrion still seemed at a loss.

"Why the look?" Freya asked him, and he shrugged.

"I've never heard you talk much about your, ah, more personal life."

"I believe that's why they call it 'personal'. Just because you like to tell everyone where your cock's been, doesn't mean I like to do the same. Well, you know what I mean."

"Are you ashamed of sex?" Shae asked, her husky voice nearly as sensual as the act itself.

"Me?" Freya chuckled, "God's no. I spent three years in a brothel. Not as an actual whore, mind you, but I've seen and heard enough of it and, well, you won't find me acting the blushing maiden any time soon."

"Now there's a story," Tyrion said, but both women ignored the comment, too engaged in their own conversation to take notice.

"Perhaps you just haven't been with any interesting men," Shae smiled, "Who was the last man you slept with?"

Freya sighed. She'd really stepped in it now, and judging by the looks on the others' faces, she wasn't going to be able to talk her way around a real answer.

"One of the Stark's men, during our stay in Winterfell."

"Jory Cassel," Tyrion said carefully, recalling the news from the previous day, hoping the mere mention of the man didn't cause his friend any pain. "I recall seeing him leave your chambers looking rather pleased with himself. But that was well over a month ago. Surely you've been with someone since then."

She shrugged. "I guess it didn't really occur to me, what with all the life-threatening situations we always seem to find ourselves in."

"And what better way to celebrate the saving of one's own life, then by performing the act that starts it all," Tyrion grinned.

"Weren't we playing a game?" Freya asked.

Shae seemed to have gotten other ideas, though, creeping over to Tyrion, her smile speaking volumes of her intentions.

"What are you doing?" Tyrion asked her, knowing very well. She pushed him down and straddled him.

"The act that begins it all, my lion."

Giggles were soon replaced with kisses, and then a few new sounds. Taking that as a very clear cue to leave, Freya and Bronn got to their feet.

"Well, best be hittin' the old dirt road," he said casually.

"There'll likely be more battles to fight in the morning," Freya agreed, clearing her throat.

The air outside had a slight chill to it, and Freya quickly found herself missing the warmth of the fires back inside. _Winter is coming,_ the breeze seemed to whisper as it blew past her, and she couldn't help but think back to Jon Snow, up on the Wall. It seemed a cruel place for such a gentle boy, but it was a fate he had chosen for himself. _In the end, we all choose our own fates, even if we don't know it_.

As she heard Bronn mutter something about finding a whore for himself, she was struck with a sudden impulsive idea.

"Bronn?"

The sellsword turned, his expression unassuming.

"Let me save you the coin."

He stared at her for a moment, as though he thought it might only be a joke. But he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about it. Sensing his hesitation, she offered him a warm smile and he soon found himself walking back towards her tent. Though the wind continued to howl around them, she never seemed to feel the cold when Bronn was by her side.

* * *

 **A/N: 100 followers! Thank-you so much to everyone who has followed and favorited so far. It really means so much knowing that people really are enjoying this story. I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you had fun reading it. Thank-you also for reviewing. Your feedback helps motivate me, and I'm glad we have so many fellow Bronn fans out there. I'm honestly surprised there aren't more stories for him on here. Look forward to hearing from you.**

 **-J**


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